Equinox Log 1: Impossible Odds
by Soledad
Summary: Captain Ransom and his first officer are very close friends. What might their backstory look like? AU. WIP.
1. Chapter 1: A Chance Meeting

The Equinox logs 

**by Soledad**

LOG #1: IMPOSSIBLE ODDS 

**Title: Log#1: Impossible Odds**

**Author: Soledad**

**Series: The Equinox Logs – totally AU**

**Genre: Acton-Adventure/Romance/Drama – take your pick.**

**Rating: from G to R, it varies by chapter.**

**Pairings: Ransom/Burke mainly, but also a series of other pairings, mostly implied.**

**Warning: This series contains adult themes like violence, experiments on sentient beings and non-detailed sexual interactions. Also, the main romance is that of a same-gender couple. If these topics are bothersome for you, please do us both the favour and hit the Back button. Thank you.**

Also, it is spellchecked but not beta-read, so beware of my weird grammar.

**Feedback: Sure, we all live for it. Just don't complain about the topics, please. The warnings were clear enough, weren't they?**

**Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.**

CHAPTER 00: A SHORT INTRODUCTION 

This series is a side product to my Alternate _Voyager series. The idea was born after I read the novelization to the "Equinox"-episodes and began to think about Captain Ransom. What kind of person was he? What motivated him and his crew? What sort of relationship connected him to his first officer, Lt. Maxwell Burke?_

Obviously, the answers I have come up with are set in an alternate universe. The family background of most characters – canon and original ones alike – has been made up by me. Nevertheless, I tried to respect canon facts as far as it still let my story work.

This particular series will contain four separate stories as follows:

Log #1: Impossible Odds 

This part tells us the backstory of Ransom and Burke's relationship. As this is an AU, I took the freedom to make them lovers. This story shows Ransom the scientists, his adventures that were only mentioned in the episode, and how he made the famous first contact with the Yridians.

Log #2: The Krowtonan Guard 

This story shows the abduction of the _Equinox to the Delta Quadrant and their first disastrous weeks there, struggling with the Krowtonan Guard. The structure and customs of the Krowtonan Empire has been made up by me._

Log #3: Shattered Hopes 

This is the record of the _Equinox' journey from near-starving through meeting the Ankari and the disaster with the nucleogenic aliens, until they leave the same starless void that _Voyager_ crossed in the episode "Night" – just through a different part of it._

Log #4: Hope, Fear and a New Earth 

The last log ties in with my Alternate _Voyager series, starting with the meeting of the two ships and offering a very different outcome for all involved parties._

These stories will be written in chronological order. The teaser will appear before each story, but this intro chapter won't be posted again.

I hope you'll enjoy our little trek together (pardon the pun).

Soledad

**CHAPTER 1: A CHANCE MEETING**

**Disclaimer:** see in the Introduction.

**Rating:** R, for non-detailed sexual intercourse.

**Author's notes:** This particular chapter happens shortly after the 3rd season TNG-episode "The Price". Starbase 80 is only mentioned in the novelization of the "Equinox" episodes, as a place where Ransom had been stationed earlier.

Heartfelt thanks to my good friend, Jenn, for proofreading.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Personal log of Lt. Cmdr. Rudolph Ransom.

Stardate: 43411.7

The fourth month of my stationary assignment on Starbase 80 has nearly reached its end. I have to admit that after three years on various science vessels in little-known parts of the Beta Quadrant, enjoying the comfort of a space dock deep in Federation territory is a luxury that I've come to appreciate very much. Starfleet Sciences did me a huge favour by giving me a sabbatical to correlate all the collected data, and this for the second time.

The _Enterprise_ has left the space dock, after dropping out all the dignities involved in the bargain for the Barzan wormhole. I ran into Devinoni Ral briefly, the man who'd negotiated on behalf of the Chrysalians, and though he was friendly enough, I'm glad that I was not the one to deal with these people. There is a reason why I never considered going to command school. Fortunately, Admiral T'Lara is a Vulcan, and as such she has the necessary patience to endure them.

My research work is going well. I've made considerable headway already. The biodata collected in the last three years are too eclectic to make sufficient raw material for another thesis right now, but they could build a solid basis for later work. All in all, I'm content.

News from Minos Kova are still sparse. Even though I don't have any relatives left on my birthplace – as my parents, thank some strange foresight, decided to move to Mars Solis when I was six – the fate of my homeworld of old still concerns me. The Cardassians are an enemy that shouldn't be underestimated. Ransom out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Rudy Ransom rose from behind his desk and stretched. He'd been working since 08.00 without a break and now, eleven hours later, every single bone in his body ached. _I definitely need more exercise_, he realized, _it's not normal to be this stiff at the age of 35._

He closed down his research for the day, stored everything in password-protected files, secured his lab and left the Institute of Exobiology Research to ride the turbolift to the habitat area. The computer was configured to transfer all research data to his even more secure personal terminal every time he finished working.

Starbase 80 was one of the huge space docks built at the end of the 22nd century, and – together with several identical ones – thoroughly overhauled a dozen times ever since, so that it looked brand new to the inexperienced eye. Drawing its energy from the large molten core of an E-class planet on the outskirts of Vulcan space, it was practically an independent city in space, with a population of over 25,000 – Vulcans, humans and dozens of other Federation species. The docking area was open for non-Federation starships as well, but for visiting other parts of the base (or for an extended presence) the crew of these needed a visa from the local Federation Embassy, led by Dr. Seth Mendoza, an experienced human diplomat of Centaurus.

Ransom briefly considered visiting one of the bars in the space port that – just like the huge docks that could swallow a _Galaxy_-class starship like a Klingon gob fly – was situated in the mushroom-shaped upper part of the Starbase, but in the end he decided against it. As magnificent as the view of arriving and leaving starships through the huge, transparent aluminium windows was, he didn't felt like mingling with all the sometimes noisy new arrivals, Starfleet or otherwise. After a long working day, one of the establishments in the habitat area, visited by permanent inhabitants only, seemed a better choice.

_I'm getting very settled in my routine,_ he thought with a self-ironic smile, realizing that his feet had automatically brought him to _Börek's Cantina – a dining place of moderate size, with good food, quiet music and mostly peaceful and solitary clientele. Definitely not the place to pick someone up for a night or two, tops. And yet, ever since he'd arrived at Starbase 80, Ransom had come here to eat. Almost every night._

Börek himself – a seven-foot-tall, burly alien with vertical yellow eyes, a hairless skull and a wrinkled, leathery face like that of a steer – seemed to spend his whole life in the Cantina. The diner was open 22 hours a day, and while the cooks worked in shifts, Börek apparently never left the place. Ransom wondered sometimes whether the Stroyerian needed any sleep at all, or if his people only hibernated a few days in an extended period of time, like the Denoblians. Such little details never failed to stir the exobiologist's interest, but he didn't feel that the time to ask a direct question was right – yet.

When Ransom entered, Börek was leaning on his elbows over the counter, towering over a ruddy-faced Starfleet officer in a command uniform. They were talking in a language Ransom had never heard before: it contained deep, guttural, gurgling noises on other ones that reminded suspiciously of burping. _It has to be Stroyerian_, Ransom decided, as the strange sounds actually matched Börek's appearance very well. Hearing them coming from the mouth of the stocky, sandy-haired human officer was another matter, of course.

Börek noticed the new customer immediately and excused himself from his chatting partner – it was business policy to serve the food to regulars personally. The Starfleet officer grinned and winked goodbye before leaving.

"Who was that?" Ransom asked, leaving to Börek to select a light meal for him; it was the best thing to do, as the names on the menu didn't say him much anyway.

"Commander Flaherty," Börek explained, producing a plate with selected pieces of vegetable-filled pastry, some sort of alarmingly pink sauce and a big glass of ikelberry juice in matching colour. "First officer. USS _Aries_. Only human ever speak mine tongue. Very decent fellow."

Börek's grasp on Standard was somewhat – elusive at times. Apparently, prepositions and articles were a strange concept for him. Obviously having decided that he had given all the important details, he trudged away already to great the next customer.

Ransom felt slightly envious. He had no linguistic talents worth mentioning, so he was dependent on the universal translator every time he met an lien who didn't speak Standard. And learning a language as strange as Stroyerian certainly demanded outstanding linguistic abilities. Most people, even most Starfleet officers, hadn't even heard of Stroyerians – they were not a numerous people and lived in an obscure, little-known sector of the Alpha Quadrant. Stroyeria wasn't even a full member of the Federation, allied only through trade contracts(2).

Ransom carefully tried the food, including the bizarrely-coloured sauce – as always, it proved t o be excellent, meaning that either _everything_ served here was delicious, or Börek had some arcane ability that guided him by selecting the food for his regular customers. Whatever the matter might be, Ransom congratulated himself for finding the place in the first week and pulled out a PADD to check his mail while eating.

"Is this a private meeting between you and your dinner or is a guy without any decent company allowed to join the party?" a deep, mellow voice interrupted his reading.

He looked up in surprise, to see the most extraordinary young man he'd met in the last four months… or longer. He was most likely human, as Ransom could not recognize any known accent used by aliens speaking Standard, about a head taller than Ransom himself, lean and long-limbed, with slicked-back black hair and large, liquid dark eyes. He seemed to be made of sharp angles entirely, expect his surprisingly round cheeks that looked as if they would belong to a different face and had ended up on his by mistake. He wore casual clothes – dark trousers and an open-necked black silk shirt – but there was something in his mannerism that revealed that he was more than just a bored playboy in search for a date.

"Sure," Ransom cleared his throat a little nervously; this wasn't the first time someone had picked him up in a bar – not that he minded it – but he wasn't prepared for it to happen in Börek's sober establishment. "Be my guest, Mr…"

"Name's Max," the young man offered, making himself comfortable already; the fact that he didn't tell his whole name made his intention all the more obvious. Ransom nodded.

"I'm Rudy."

That earned him a grin from Max, but he was used to people reacting to his first name that way. Especially humans. To Max' credit, at least the young man resisted the temptation to bring up the infamous red-nosed reindeer. Or else he was from a far-away colony where Santa was not part of the tradition. In any case, it was a relief.

Having found more interesting entertainment, Ransom put the PADD back into his pocket, sending a short blessing to whoever ingenious person designed these new coveralls for station personnel. They were comfortable, pleasant to wear, made anyone look well – _and they actually had __pockets, for the first time in a century and a half! He only hoped they would be adapted as duty uniforms for starship use as well._

"So… Max," he said, surveying the amount and variety of food that Börek had found suitable to pile on three different plates on the young man's tray, "you're new on the Base, I guess."

Max nodded, chewing and swallowing unhurriedly, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. "I was transferred six days ago."

"You're Fleet, too?" Ransom felt he had the right to ask that much – after all, _he_ was in uniform, complete with rank pins, a fact that gave the other man an advantage.

"Only recently," Max dropped something that looked like fried shrimps but was most definitely _not into his mouth. "My first post. I've just graduated."_

That piece of information made Ransom decidedly uncomfortable.

"I thought you were older."

Max grinned. "Actually, I am. I worked on a civilian freighter for five years before going to the Academy."

Which meant in translation: _Don't fret, I'm no frightened virgin. Of course, it would take for Ransom another four years to discover that Max had bent the truth a little, just to put his mind at ease. The five years on the freighter were true – only that Max had been barely fifteen when he started working there. But the young man _did_ look older than his actual age, so Ransom didn't suspect that there still were twelve years between the two of them._

"Was it there that you got used to eating so much?" he joked, a little taken aback by the predatory glance in those dark eyes. "How do you manage to remain this skinny?"

Max shrugged, grinning. "The clue is energy. Lots of nervous energy, or so they say. I've got a very fast digestion."

But his eyes clouded over a little, and Ransom suspected that there had to be more behind his ravenous appetite than genetics. A childhood spent in poverty, perhaps. This was the reaction of someone who'd known _real_ hunger.

The conversation died for the time being, and Ransom leaned back in his chair, watching the younger man making a sensual performance out of his dinner. There was little doubt how their chance encounter would end, but since it was Max who initiated the whole thing, Ransom decided to let him make the next step – if he wanted. In the meantime, the performance was worth watching.

Finally Max finished eating (and showing off for his potential date) and pushed the tray from him with a content sigh. All three plates were meticulously cleaned from the last morsel of food.

"That was excellent," the young man said. "I see I'll love this place. But I'm so full now, it's not even funny anymore. I think I'll need some exercise – and maybe a real drink or two. Can you suggest a place where I can find both?"

Which meant in translation: _I want to go somewhere where we can dance and have a drink – and preferably a room afterwards. The ball was back in Ransom's corner again. And he just happened to know the right place, for all three requirements._

"What about the _Starlight Casino?" he asked. It's run by Ferengi, but it has gambling tables, a well-stocked bar… and a number of holosuites."_

"Sounds interesting," Max' eyes raked all over Ransom's body. "You may not want to be seen there in uniform, though…"

Ransom shrugged. "It's not an off-limits place for Starfleet personnel." He knew, of course, that Max simply wanted more eye-candy, so with a slight smile, he added. "But I can change if that's what you mean."

Max nodded slowly. "That would be nice. Meet you there in twenty minutes?"

"Will you find your way?" Ransom asked. The grin on Max' face was a clear enough answer, so he stood, paid his bill and went home to dress up for his first date in two months.

* *  * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ransom never made much of clothes, so changing actually meant for him to put on his civvies – a simple, sand-coloured shirt that nearly matched his hair and some dark grey trousers that he preferred to wear off-duty. They revealed little more than his uniform, as he had no exhibitionistic tendencies whatsoever. The only allowance he made was leaving the top three buttons of his shirt open.

The _Starlight Casino_ was buzzing with life already when he arrived. The majority of the customers was human or Betazoid – the latter had an institute of advanced psychology on the station – but he could see quite a few civilian Trill scientists from the microcontamination lab of from Quantum Mechanics, too. Personally, he only knew Dr. Hanor Pren who used to be a guest professor at the Academy. Some Ferengi merchants were playing at one of the Dabo tables, and even a couple of Vulcans stood there, watching he gambles with detached, almost scientific interest.

Max was at the bar already, leaning against the polished counter and flirting shamelessly with a scantily-clad blonde humanoid waitress – most likely a K'tarian, if the slanted eyes, the bulbous forehead and the lion-like mane were any indication. Ransom dismissed the scene with a shrug. Apparently, Max walked both sides of the street. So what? They had no commitment – they had just met. Besides, Ransom wasn't the possessive type, so even if his date turned out a failure, he wouldn't lose any sleep about it.

As if he had some special mental sensors, Max noticed his arrival immediately.

"Sorry, honey," he said to the waitress, "but it seems that my date has arrived. Was nice to chat with you, though."

The K'tarian woman shot Ransom a rueful look (she had been chastised before by her boss for molesting the customers) and hurried back to the Dabo tables.

"What a pleasure to see you in our humble establishment again, Commander," a deep, oozing voice spoke, and Paldor and his brother Manion, the owners of the _Starlight Casino_ (and many other, less than lawful business areas on the station) made their appearance. Max stared at them with his mouth literally open, and when he was being honest, Ransom couldn't blame the younger man for it.

As Ferengi go, the two godfathers of Starbase 80 were far from usual in appearance. Though short like all of their people, each had an oversized head covered with white hair –except one circular area above their eyebrow ridges – which created a V-shaped line with the bushy eyebrows. On the bald area that barely reached the top of their heads, the pale red tattoo of their tribal and clan identifications could be seen. The eyebrow ridges that shadowed the long, pale eyes, continued in an unbroken line along the enormous ear shells and down to the tip of their chins, which were long enough to touch their chests. Paldor, the older one, even wore a short, curly white goatee, hold together by golden pins. Long, velvet robes in burgundy red and royal blue with stiff, gold-seamed collars and triangular golden buttons completed their venerable appearance(2).

"We have missed you lately," Manion added, his voice oozing he same false benevolence as his brother's. "But as it seems, you've chosen the best time for a visit. We have an Argelian dance group for a guest performance tonight. They are said to be a true marvel."

"The Red Separee is still free at the moment, if you please," Paldor took over smoothly, and Ransom made a quick calculation. The separees of the _Starlight Casino_ – small dining chambers with a curtain-covered door into luxurious bedrooms behind them – were outrageously expensive, but had direct access to the dance floor, the best view of all performances – and the bedrooms were soundproof. Plus, the drinks and desserts were included into the price. Which was high, alarmingly so – but he could afford it, having barely spent a couple of credits during the last two months.

"All right," he said with a flat smile that told Paldor not to try any tricks on him, "we'll take it. Until 03.00 hours. Not a nanosecond longer." Which still gave them more than five hours of ridiculous luxury. That should be enough – both for having fun and for eating up every credit he had laid aside for recreation purposes since he arrived.

"You better be good," he said to Max in a low voice, hoping that not even the unnaturally keen Ferengi ears would hear it through the music and the noise of the gambling tables. "This is one stunt I won't be able to repeat for months to come."

"I'll do my best," the young man replied with false modesty; then he glanced at the Ferengi who'd gone forward to show them the way. "Didn't you say this place was run by Ferengi?"

"They _are_ Ferengi," Ransom said, "just not the sort you can run into in every port. They are upper class _the_ ultimate nobility. Ferengi are no more of a homogenous species than humans are. Up to 200 years ago, these were the ruling class on Ferenginar. The planet used to be an oligarchy, ruled by about two dozen powerful (meaning: very rich) clans. They were protected by a warrior caste that has become almost completely extinct."

"Ferengi _warriors?" Max shook his head in amusement. "Sounds like Klingon merchants… What were those like?"_

"Apparently, they looked the average Ferengi rather alike, but were somewhat bigger and stronger," Ransom started warming up for the topic. "They had only one big forehead bulb, slightly pointed ears and long, sharp, vampire-like canines. The rest of the people, however, was the same as today, or so they say. Then a civil war – or something like that, the details are unclear – happened, that more or less eradicated the warrior caste and forced the ruling class into exile. They were discovered by Kirk's _Enterprise_ during its second five-year-mission."(3)

"How come that you know these things, of which nobody else has ever heard?" Max asked in amazement while they were lead to the Red Separee and got seated on the low and broad, velvet-covered settee. Ransom shrugged.

"I'm an exobiologist – and for some reason I can't guess, Paldor decided that he liked me, right after my arrival. So, sometimes I come here for a drink, and we talk. Most of the time he lies through his teeth, I think, but it's an interesting challenge to find the kernel of truth behind all those layers of lies. Still, he seems to really like me. I even got into the holosuites for an acceptable price for a few times."

"And?" Max asked with interest. Of course he'd had tales about the holographic brothels of the Ferengi – everyone had. But very few people could afford the prices in an establishment like the _Starlight Casino. Not many of Starfleet, at least._

"The programs are incredible," Ransom admitted, laying a hand on Max' thigh and squeezing gently, "but they can't beat the real thing."

They were distracted for a moment by the waiter – this time a young, beautiful, dark-skinned Centaurian boy with deep red eyes and a shaved skull, wearing a _very_ tiny loincloth and a golden collar only – who took their drink orders. The _Starlight Casino personnel adapted quickly to the customers' preferences._

"An Arcturian Fizz for me," Ransom ordered; not that he would need any aphrodisiac, not with this gorgeous young man on his side, but "in for a penny, in for a pound", as the old Earth saying stated. "And a macchiato, double strong, double sweet, in about two hours."

The practically naked young waiter nodded and tapped the order into his PADD.

"And for you, sir?" he asked Max.

"Do you serve Calaman sherry here?"

"But of course, sir."

"I mean the real thing, not that replicated stuff," Max warned. "And tell whoever pours the drinks that I _can tell the difference, so no tricks."_

"No problem, sir," the waiter answered. "Had you ordered Romulan ale, we might need to be a little… creative, but Calaman sherry is a fairly common order here, so the boss keeps an extensive stock. Any desserts? We've got home-made I'danian spice pudding tonight. It's excellent."

"And extremely caloric," Max laughed. "No, thanks. I've got to keep my girlish shape."

"It's always good to have some extra calories to burn," the waiter gave Ransom's hand, still resting on Max' thigh, an unmistakable look. Max grinned.

"Another time, perhaps. I'll have iced coffee instead. Later."

"In about two hours," the waiter nodded, completely aware of the likely run of the evening; he'd worked here for quite some time. "Your drinks will arrive in a moment, gentlemen. The performance starts in forty minutes."

With that, he left to fetch their drinks, swaying his hips in a seemingly innocent manner.

"Forty minutes?" Max rolled his eyes. "What are we going to do _that_ long? It's too much time for sitting with a drink, but not nearly enough to go into the back room. I'm not into quickies, unless there's no other choice."

"We're going to dance," Ransom slid his hand higher, over the younger man's crotch, fondling his prize briefly. "You wanted some exercise, didn't you? And the lights above the dance floor are reasonably dim."

"This place was made for people like us," Max agreed, rubbing himself against Ransom's hand like a cat in the heat. "Let's go!"

They stood and walked out of their separee, directly onto the well populated dance floor. The lights were dim enough, indeed, the music slow and sensuous – loud enough that the dancing couples of various age, gender and race wouldn't disturb each other with low moans, soft grunts or whispered endearments, but not so loud that it would kill the amorous mood. There seemed to be no rules what would go and what wouldn't, as long as some level of discretion was kept.

Ransom led his date to a less crowded part of the dance floor, wanting a little more privacy. They danced lazily, holding each other by the hips, hands exploring lightly the more intimate places, then returning again, growing interests rubbing together repeatedly.

"This is nice," Max murmured, sliding his hands up to the strong, shoulders of his date, kneading the tense muscled absently. "Most guys don't take their time; it's usually a drink and a quick pounding, and it's over."

"Is that why you prefer women?" Ransom asked, smiling. Max looked down at him in surprise.

"Who told you that I preferred women?"

"Well, I saw you with that K'tarian girl… you _did_ seem interested," Ransom pointed out neutrally. Max shrugged.

"She was pretty… but I was just flirting. The good thing with girls is that you can flirt with them without them demanding more on the spot. That's why I never flirt with men. They tend to believe that it would give them the right to get into my pants, without asking."

"What were you doing in Börek's then, if not flirting with me?" Ransom asked. Max looked him straight in the eyes.

"Making a pass at you, so that you'd get the hint."

"I did," Ransom grinned, "so we can call _that a success. What next? Do you want to watch the performance, or should we continue straight in the back room?" Max thought about that for a moment._

"Drinks, performance, then back room," he finally decided. "I've never seen an Argelian dance group before, and since you're gonna sell your last shirt for that separee anyway, it'd be a shame to waste the perfect view. We can still make out while watching them, can't we? The tablecloth is long for a reason…"

"We don't need the tablecloth for cover," Ransom said, moving with the music and pressing his lower body against the younger man's suggestively. "The separees are equipped with a semi-transparent screen, or so I am told. We can look out, but nobody can peer in."

"Yeah, but where's the adventure in that?" Max laughed, undulating his hips a few times experimentally. "The real kick is that we actually _could_ be seen, isn't it?"

"For you, perhaps," Ransom grabbed the back of the younger man's head and pulled him down for the first kiss. It was a tentative approach, sampling the taste and texture of the soft mouth – an aperitif to the meal to come. He found his first taste of Max extremely satisfying. "Let's go back," he suggested, slipping his hand under Max' shirt, basking in the warmth and softness of his skin. "Necking is awkward when we are standing – you are too tall."

"Or you are too short," Max laughed, shivering slightly under the sensual touch, but followed obediently. He wasn't usually this submissive, but he hadn't been treated this generously by his other dates either, so he decided to let Rudy take the lead – for the time being. The older man seemed like a patient and considerable lover, so it didn't really matter who called the shots.

They returned to their separee where their desserts were already waiting for them, and now the necking began in earnest. Ransom found the scent and the taste of Max intoxicating, and Max couldn't keep his hands off Ransom either. It had been too long, for both of them, their need for closeness was almost desperate.

When the – admittedly marvellous – Argelian belly dancers swarmed out onto the dance flour, their smooth, incredibly limber bodies swaying and glistening like a nest of beautiful and deadly cobras to the pipe of the snake charmer, the Arcturian Fizz had already developed its full effect. The two men were more laying than sitting on the plush sofa, watching the performance with half an eye, while the rest of their body parts were… otherwise occupied.

"How many hands _do you have, Rudy?" The low, throaty laughter of Max was barely audible above the aggressive shrieking of Argelian flutes and the throbbing of the drums. "Are you an octopus or what?"_

"You have a problem with the position of my hands?" Ransom inquired politely; one of said hands was currently deep in Max' pants, the other under his shirt.

"Only… that they are… not… deep enough…" Max was losing the ability of coherent speech rapidly.

"Yeah, but if I let them wander any deeper," which Ransom actually was doing in that very moment, "you won't be able to concentrate on the dancers."

"Forget the dancers," Max gasped," I've seen enough. But I'll die… from… blue balls,… if you keep… doing _that… any longer…."_

"Now, we can't have that, can we?" Ransom murmured, sinking under the table bonelessly. "Just enjoy the performance while I take care of your little problem."

Unless he wanted to attract any unwanted attention, Max had no other choice than to pretend watching the dancers while the older man went down gleefully on him. He was very much aware of the fact that – unlike the back room – _this_ part of the separee was _not_ soundproof. Painfully aware of it, in fact – remaining silent while Rudy had his wicked way with him under the table was pure torture.

Finally, just seconds before the waiter reappeared with their pre-ordered desserts, the older man emerged again, sitting casually on his side, watching the rest of the performance with infuriating calmness.

"Anything else, gentlemen?" the waiter asked, his face carefully neutral.

"I think we'll have two I'danian spice puddings, after all," Ransom answered, as Max was beyond speech at the moment. "And two cups of hot pejuta, with a slice of lemon at 02.30. Can you arrange it?"

"Of course, sir. Do you want the dessert now or with the pejuta?"

"Neither, actually. Around midnight. Here in the foreroom. Preferably warm."

"No problem at all, sir. I'll serve it in a thermo-dish. Have a pleasant time, gentlemen."

With that, the waiter left. Max had recovered a little in the meantime, so that they had the coffee of their choice and decided to retire in the back room and get down to business seriously.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

At 02.48 they were ready to leave – sated, lazy and cleaned up for the new day, as the back room had a sonic shower, among other luxuries. Ransom walked back to the counter, checked the bill carefully – friendship aside, one could never be suspicious enough when doing business with Ferengi – then signed it, allowing the considerable amount of credits to be transferred from his account. Max, not wanting to spy on him, waited a little further away.

"I had a lot of fun," he offered a little awkwardly, following his lover out of the _Casino_. Ransom nodded.

"Me, too. I'm glad we ran into each other at Börek's."

"Perhaps we'll run into each other again," Max said uncertainly. He didn't keep up his hopes for that to happen very much, but a guy could try, after all.

"Perhaps," Rudy answered noncommittally. "Well, duty calls. Take care, Max." And he was gone.

"You, too," Max answered to the empty corridor, walking off toward the turbolift in defeat.

_Damn it_, he thought, angry with himself, _when will I learn not to expect anything else but what has been offered?_

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Actually, Stroyerians are one of the nameless species from the TOS-movies in my alternate universe. "Börek" is the name of a Turkish dish, BTW. *g*

(2) The description is based on Andrew Probert's first (rejected) designs for Ferengi. See: "The Art of Star Trek", pp. 94-95.

(3) Well, no, they were not. Not in canon anyway. Just in my stories, which are AU. Like the whole concept about Ferengi history.


	2. Chapter 2: A New And Better Start

The Equinox logs 

**by Soledad**

LOG #1: IMPOSSIBLE ODDS 

**Disclaimer:** see in the Introduction.

**Rating:** PG-13, for this part. Maybe even lower.

**Author's notes:** This particular chapter happens shortly after the 3rd season TNG-episode "The Defector". There is no canon fact that would support the idea that Selar moved to Vulcana Regar. Or that of the Ni'Var sect.

This chapter is not beta-ed yet, so bear with me, please. I'll repost it when it's done, I just wanted it posted.

**CHAPTER 2: A NEW (AND BETTER) START**

Personal log of Lt. Cmdr. Rudolph Ransom.

Stardate: 43475.2

After the apparent Romulan crisis at Nelvana III things seem to be calming down again. I hope we'll have a peaceful year. There had been minor skirmishes all over the quadrant recently – why can't people just get along?

I've received an invitation to the Vulcan science colony Vulcana Regar. A certain Dr. Saduk offered me a visit in their labs where he works for the microcontamination project of several Federation worlds, including Terra, Vulcan and Betazed. Admiral T'Lara promised me a shuttle transport as soon as schedule allows.

On a more personal note – it's been two weeks since my chance encounter with Max. I haven't seen him again since then. I probably could find out his identity, as I know the date of his arrival, his first name and that he's freshly graduated. But so far I haven't found the courage to do so.

Ransom out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

For the third time in the last two weeks, Rudy Ransom took the risk to go to _Börek's Cantina at his customary time. For a while he'd avoided his favourite dinner – he was afraid to run into Max. He felt ridiculous by doing so (he was no lovesick teenager, after all, nor had this been his first casual affair); still, he wasn't able to control his anxiety. The strong effect Max had on him frightened him like nothing before._

He'd had his share of one-night-stands and brief, superficial relationships. For a Starfleet officer, especially for one transferred as frequently as he had been, this was the usual way of companionship. More so for someone with an exclusive interest in his own gender, when the urge for family and children was not an issue.

In his whole life, he'd taken what had been offered and accepted the inevitable end with a shrug. Never before had he tried to keep his partners any longer than they had wanted to stay. Sometimes, when personal feelings threatened to become too strong, _he_ had been the one to break up and leave. Commitment was not something he wanted, not something he could imagine to balance with his work.

Until now.

Max had awakened something new in him. Something that he'd never felt before. Something, that – quite frankly – scared the shit out of him.

For the first time in his life, he'd found someone he wanted to keep. Forever, if possible. As long as he might, if forever was not a choice.

He'd fallen in love with a stranger, of whom he didn't even know the full name.

So he dared to go to Börek's again, instead asking for a takeout (which was also a possibility, the burly Stroyerian had an excellent sense for business), and sat down to his usual table nervously.

"Börek," he asked when the owner brought his diner, "the young man I met here two weeks ago, the one with dark hair… have you seen him since then?"

The leathery face of the big alien – deep red like raw meat in its natural state – revealed nothing. Börek simply shook his head, his low-hanging skin folds slapping against his neck, and stomped away.

So, Max wanted to keep out of his way, too. Fair enough, neither of them indicated that there could be more. Ransom ate his supper without real appetite – not able to think of anything else but the delighted face of Max as the young man had wolfed down his meal two weeks ago – and after some hesitation he decided to return to his lab and do some more work. It was better than agonizing about his own folly – or missed chance, whatever his mood at any given moment suggested.

He had worked some four hours straight, making excellent headway (and thanking the Fates for small favours) when the comm unit on his desk beeped. He activated it absently, "Ransom."

"You've got a visitor," the usual dispatcher, an elderly Terellian woman with four arms, the strangely "molten" features of her race and the patience of a saint told her. "Dr. Saduk from Vulcana Regar."

Now, _that was a surprise. Of course, he rarely checked the traffic at the other labs, and the invitation he had gotten from Saduk four days earlier was a written one…_

"Thank you, Androna(1)," he said. "Please let Dr. Saduk in."

Androna acknowledged, and a minute later a slender Vulcan male entered the lab, wearing civilian clothes and the customary serene expression of his people.

"Forgive me the intrusion, Commander," the scientist said, after performing the traditional Vulcan salute, "but Admiral T'Lara mentioned that you are looking for a transport to my colony."

"That is correct," Ransom nodded. "I've decided to accept your invitation, but at the moment the Starbase has no free shuttles. I'll have to wait until the next regular flight."

"I believe I can be of some assistance here," Saduk said. "I was brought here by a somewhat old Warp-shuttle of our institute, and will be returning at 07.00 hours station time. You are welcome to join me, assuming you can rearrange your working schedule."

Ransom thought about it for a minute. Getting off-base for a time was probably the best thing that could have happened to him at the moment, and his work…

"I can arrange my work more or less independently," he replied, "so that won't be a problem. Of course, I'll have to ask the Admiral first."

"I've already suggested her the solution," Saduk said, "and she agreed. All you have to do is to hand in a formal request."

"Well… thank you," to be honest, Ransom was a little surprised. "I'll accept, of course. May I ask why my visit is so important for you?"

Saduk stapled his fingers before his face thoughtfully. "My motivation is not entirely selfless, Dr. Ransom. You are an excellent exobiologist; the only one from Starfleet Sciences currently in this sector. Our research has reached a critical point where we cannot continue without support: financial means and access to Starfleet databases. Starfleet Sciences is going to call for reports about our headway – we hope you will write one, in case we manage to prove to you the importance of our work."

"So you need me as a Starfleet expert?" Ransom asked, and the Vulcan nodded.

"Basically… yes. We will be asking the Trill team of the base to do some evaluation reports as well. I understand that you are familiar with their work?"

"With the basics, yes, but I don't know it in any detail. It's very specified, and not exactly my field of expertise."

"I see," the Vulcan nodded. "It does not matter. If you are familiar with the basics, you will understand what we are doing. Are we in agreement, then?'

"We are," Ransom answered, adapting quickly to the detached manner of the Vulcan. Saduk rose from his seat.

"I'll see you in 07.00 hours. Shuttlebay Two, Docking Platform C. Good night, Dr. Ransom."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After a much too short night – he had to leave his work in some semblance of readiness and inform several people, his commanding officer among them, that he would be off-base for about a week – Rudy Ransom arrived to Shuttlebay Two at 06.55, station time. Finding Docking Platform C was an easy thing, if not for anything else, then because the small, stocky shuttle cabin parked there was very different from the new, more streamlined vessels around it. On Vulcan itself, they were barely used anymore, but obviously, a science colony like Vulcana Regar had to accept leftovers.

A thin female Vulcan in a cadet's uniform came to greet him. She had that short "Queen Cleopatra" style hairdo that Bajoran cadets had made so popular at the Academy, and it matched her chiselled features quite well. It surprised Ransom a little that a Vulcan would care for such irrelevant things as fashion, but again, he never understood women very well, whatever species they might belong to. Which was part of the reason why he always sought out male lovers. With men, it was simpler. Factual. To the point, without all that emotional garbage that often made a heterosexual relationship so painful and embarrassing.

Except if the other guy was called Max.

Even more surprised him when the Vulcan cadet stretched out her hand for an Earth-style greeting – a little awkwardly, for sure, but the honesty of the gesture was unmistakable.

"Lieutenant Commander Ransom," she said in a business-like manner, "welcome on the _T'Pring. I am Cadet T'Shanik(2). I will be your pilot."_

"Nice to meet you, Cadet," carefully, trying to suppress his own emotions as well as humanly possible (inclusive his curiosity), Ransom shook her had. She gave him the Vulcan eyebrow and a smile that showed in her dark eyes only.

"You do not need to worry, Commander," she said. "My mental shields are strong, and I have been prepared for the physical contact."

"Does it mean that in this case you won't experience my emotions?" Ransom asked. She thought for a moment, seeking for the right words.

"It would be more precise to say that when prepared, I am able to shut them out," she finally explained. "However, I would suggest that you do not initiate physical contact with other Vulcans, Commander. Few among our people have ever converted to the Ni'Var way of thinking, even though our colony has been founded by the Ni'Var sect."

Ransom was more than curious now, but T'Shanik glanced at her chrono with an apologetic gesture.

"Your pardon. We have to board the _T'Pring_ in fifty-eight seconds, or we would be late. I do not wish to insult Dr. Saduk."

"Me, neither," Ransom nodded. "Would it be possible for us to continue this conversation later?"

"I am afraid I will be on duty for the next five days," T'Shanik answered. "Should you have any questions, however, feel free to ask Dr. Selar. She is not one of the Ni'Vaari, but she is a very open-minded person and can explain you the basics."

"And where can I find this Dr. Selar? Isn't she on the _Enterprise_? One of the medical officers?"

"Not anymore," T'Shanik opened the slide door of the shuttle. "She lives on Vulcana Regar now. Ever since she married Dr. Saduk."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The flight to Vulcana Regar took six hours, but Ransom didn't mind. He followed the docking procedure on the viewscreen with great interest – the way T'Shanik flew the bulky little cabin, brought it around outside the base, turned it upside down and finally slid it home, right into the strong docking clamps of the warp-platform was like a zero G-ballet. These old-fashioned warp-shuttles had only thrusters for atmospheric flight, and needed the special warp-platforms – large, flat planes with a thin nacelle attached to their longer sides – for interplanetary or interstellar travel(3). They were considered relics, and very few people could still fly them – T'Shanik was obviously an expert, though.

They spent the whole journey in silence. Vulcans were not fond of small talk, and Ransom didn't want to ask the computer for details about the mysterious Ni'Var sect in Saduk's presence. So he chose to sleep instead – after the shortness of previous night's rest, it was the logical thing to do. He grinned at this thought before falling asleep. Obviously, his new environment had started to influence him already.

Vulcana Regar was a planet very similar to Mars Solis – small, hot and dry, but without the strong winds. It was situated at the border of its sun's habitable area, but its sparse natural vegetation had been greatly enlarged since the colony had been founded, some two hundred years earlier. It had a renowned university, small, but excellent, that worked on research projects which larger institutions found not interesting enough, and brought forth very good results. Microcontamination was only one of these projects.

The lab was built in traditional Vulcan style – two-third of it had been dug into the soil to keep out the natural heat. But from the inside, it looked like the best Starfleet institutes, enriched with some new and highly inventive technologies, developed by the scientist themselves. Most Vulcans had at least two different fields of expertise. And nearly all of them were technically savvy anyway.

They were welcomed in the foyer of the lab by a tall, slender woman with short-cropped hair, clad in the blue uniform of Starfleet Medical. Ransom recognized her from the Gravesworld logs – it was Dr. Selar.

"Dr. Ransom," she said with a welcoming nod, "it is good that you could find the time to visit us. Do you want the tour first or some explanations?"

"I have gone through the basics last night," Ransom answered; being addressed by his scientific degree rather than by his rank was a little unusual, but he guessed it was a custom here. "So, if you don't mind, I'd like to see how you work here."

"Certainly," Selar nodded. "However, for that you will have to wear an EVA suit. The rescue labs have a pollution degree one – the air contains one dust particle pro cubic metre…"(4)

The six days on Vulcana Regar were spent with amazing speed. Ransom made himself familiar with the microcontamination project in more detail that he was actually interested in, but the Vulcan scientists were so helpful and eager to explain him everything that he simply could not wink them off. So he listened, took notices, and on the fifth day he wrote a detailed evaluation report to Starfleet Sciences, suggesting that the project should have the support the Vulcan team needed. It was the truth, after all. And the Vulcans hadn't made any effort to influence his judgement.

Which was the main reason he supported them. The main reason why he had been interested in their work in the first place.

Al the activities left him exactly one local day (which, in the case of this particular planet, meant 19.5 standard hours) to learn more about the colony itself. And about the so-called sect that had founded it, back in the 22nd century.

"'Sect' is not the correct term for it, as _Ni'Var_ is not a religious community but a certain way of thinking," Selar explained, when they finally found the time to talk about anything else but work. "One could also say it is a school of philosophy, but that would be misleading as well. The word _Ni'Var_ is a very complex one and means essentially the unification of the two sides of the _katra – the logical-scientific one and the animalistic-emotional one. Basically, the __Ni'Vaari wish to re-integrate their emotions instead of suppressing them completely."_

"Is that possible as all?" Ransom asked. "I was taught that Surak led Vulcan to the path of logic some five thousand  years ago because your ancestors could not control their violent emotions – or is that a myth?"

"No, it is true," Selar poured herbal tea into the sand-coloured glass cups, the typical product of the manufactures in Vulcan's Forge. "Vulcan emotions are extremely volatile, and before the Awakening, our history had been a bloody and violent one. Proper discipline and regular meditation is the best way to deal with our emotions – although not the only one."

"Does it mean that the way of these… _Nivari_ is a legal one, too?" Ransom asked.

"It is not forbidden," Selar answered slowly, "but it is less sufficient. There have been… throwbacks. Particularly violent ones, Think of it as a parallel to that Terran sport, surfing. Most of the time the surfers are able to ride the waves. But sometimes the waves are too high, too strong… The difference is, that a surfer who has lost control often can be saved by others."

"And a _Nivari?"_

"_Ni'Vaari," Selar corrected his pronunciation with one of these Vulcan non-smiles that appeared in the eyes only; then she turned deadly serious again. "If a __Ni'Vaari loses control, it leads to the complete dissection of the neural pathways, on a physical level. It causes madness, with the patient running amok, leaving a trail of destruction behind… or, in particularly bad cases, even corpses. That is why after the first centuries of failure the revisionists actually created the _Ni'Var_ – keeping many of the mental techniques we use to control their emotions, but more ready and willing to explore those same emotions."_

"But what would make a Vulcan interested in regaining their emotions in the first place?" Ransom shook his head. "Believe me, Dr. Selar, feelings can be bothersome, confusing, painful – all in all, a complete nuisance."

"I do not doubt that," Selar replied in spotless Vulcan manner. "I have adopted an Andorian child, and that gives me a certain… expertise in dealing with uncontrolled emotions. But for the _Ni'Vaari_ it is not about the feelings in the first place, even though at times they delight in them."

"What is their goal then?"

"To regain at least part of the mental abilities that have become crippled or completely quenched during our millennia-long struggle for logic and discipline. Before the Awakening, telepathy was the regular way of communication – it had developed long before spoken language among our people. Telekinetic powers, psychokinesis, precognitive abilities were fairly common as well. Most Vulcans still have a sixth sense to detect magnetic fields, but it is becoming less common with every passing generation. And the list of lost abilities goes on.(5)"

"So, this is why this colony has been found," Ransom realized. "They were afraid that their... experiment would endanger the others."

"That is correct," Selar nodded. "They wanted to be among themselves, in case things would get out of control. But that has been a long time ago. Nowadays, the _Ni'Vaari are in the third or fourth generation and quite stable. You have met Cadet T'Shanik; she is one of the fourth generation and not very different from the rest of us."_

"Except that she shakes hands," Ransom smiled."

"But only with Terrans," Selar countered, her dark eyes twinkling. Ransom laughed.

"Do you miss deep space?" he then asked. The doctor lifted one shoulder for a millimetre or so – the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug.

"Sometimes I do. But Thala needs me now, and at least I can work with Saduk as long as I have this planetary assignment."

"But you _would return to deep space later, if given the chance, wouldn't you?" Ransom asked. Selar shook her head._

"To a big ship like the _Enterprise_ – no. Those have too long assignments, and I do not want to leave my home for years. But a short-range science vessel, where families are allowed on board – I would like to serve on such one."

"A small ship has its advantages," Ransom agreed; then he rose. "Thank you for the information, doctor. I'll be better going now. The regular shuttle is about to start in twenty minutes."

"It was my pleasure," Selar rose, too, to see him out. "I hope we can meet again, Dr. Ransom."

"So do I," remembering T'Shanik's warning, Ransom, didn't even try to stretch out his hand. "Live long and prosper, Dr. Selar."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Saduk was waiting for him in the lounge of the colony's space port.

"I will see you to your shuttle, Dr. Ransom," he offered. "You are the only pre-scheduled passenger; Ensign Burke is checking if anyone else has boarded in the meantime. You my even have an early launch."

The shuttle, waiting for start, was one of the regular "Type 2 nightmares", as they were called at the Academy – fast, well-maneuverable, but a little crowded for comfort. Of course, with only the pilot and a single passenger, it won't be so bad.

Saduk knocked on the open door's frame, and a lanky young man in a red command uniform looked out. He had glossy black hair, dark eyes and no rank pins on his collar.

"Yes?" he asked in a deep, mellow voice.

"I have brought your passenger," Saduk told him, puzzled by the shocked expression that flickered through the young man's face for a fleeting moment. "Dr. Ransom, this is Ensign Maxwell Burke. He will be your pilot."

"We've… met before," was all Ransom could press out. Meeting Max unexpectedly was bad enough. The perspective of spending the next couple of hours alone with him in the shuttle was worse.

A _lot worse._

Thank the Fates, juts like the great majority of Vulcans, Saduk completely lacked any intuition when human feelings were considered.

"In that case," he said politely, "I will leave you in the ensign's capable hands. Have a pleasant trip, Dr. Ransom. Ensign."

Without any further remark, the Vulcan left. The two men avoided to look at each other. Mad, getting over his initial shock already, sat back to his console to continue his pre-flight check, his narrow back rigid with wordless rejection.

God, this was a bad situation. Max _had_ told him that he had recently graduated, it was inevitable that they would run into each other in the line of duty eventually. But Ransom would have preferred _later. When he had his own confused feelings sorted out a little._

Apparently, so would have Max, if his stiff behaviour was any indication.

"Operations has cleared us for start, commander," the ensign said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Please take your seat  for lift-off, it's always a bumpy start from this planet. Turbulences in the upper atmosphere…"

"Thank you, Ensign," two could play this game, after all. "Although I haven't experienced anything like that when I arrived."

"You have come by a Vulcan shuttle, sir. Those are designed to navigate through atmospheric turbulences. And Cadet T'Shanik has flown them since the age of twelve."

So, Max flirted with Vulcan women as well?

"Is she a friend of yours?"

"With all due respect, sir," Max didn't even bother to turn back, "whom I socialize with in my off-time is not your business."

_That was dangerously close to inappropriate behaviour towards a ranking officer, but the last thing Ransom wanted was to pull rank on his lover. Ex-lover. The object of his desire. Whatever._

So they started in silence, and the silence lasted for more than an hour afterwards. Ransom tried to read, but found that he could not concentrate. Max' presence – and memories from their night together – kept intruding his thoughts. Finally, he set the PADD aside and walked forward to take the co-pilot's empty seat. For such short trips one pilot was enough, especially with another Starfleet officer on board who could take over in case of an emergency.

"Max," he said quietly, "this is ridiculous. We need to talk."

"Do we?" Max still refused to look at him. "Took you long enough to make up your mind."

"You weren't exactly taking the initiative, either," Ransom pointed out.

"Well, we don't exactly play in the same league," Max was stubbornly looking at his controls.

Ransom tried to remain patient, but it wasn't easy. He could never appreciate petulant behaviour.

"That fact didn't bother you when you made a pass at me," he said. "You know damn well whom you picked up. I was in uniform, with rank pins in full sight."

"At that particular time I didn't really care," Max shrugged. "I never expected to run into you again – you are a science officer, and I'm assigned to Ops, usually. I've just jumped in for one of the pilots. Had I known that you would be on board, of all people, I would have switched with someone else."

"Why?" Ransom asked quietly.

At that Max switched to autopilot and finally turned to him, his eyes blazing, but his face cold and unmoved.

"Look… Commander. We were both off-duty and we had a good time. But that's it. Now, why don't we go on with our respective lives and try to avoid embarrassing situations like this?"

Ransom tilted his head thoughtfully, watching the younger man's face. Max tried to keep his mask, but it was falling, and it was obvious that he wasn't happy – and not only because their situation was awkward… to put it mildly.

"You are right, Max," Ransom decided to lay his cards open on the table; "we _did have a good time. A fantastic time, in fact. If you want to close the issue and forget it, I won't press you. But I for my part don't want it to end."_

He was rewarded by the rare sight of the true Max for a fleeting moment: the sight of a hurt and confused – and very lonely young man. Then the mask slid back to place firmly, and Max gave a derisive snort.

"To end what? We haven't even begun anything."

"Maybe not," Ransom agreed. "But I'd be willing to give it a new chance. To give _us a new chance."_

"_Us?" Max repeated, considering the whole idea for the first time. "Is then there an _us_, Rudy?"_

"I don't know," Ransom admitted; "But I'd like very much to find out. Let's give this… whatever this is between us... a new start. Hopefully a better one."

Max laughed at that; it was a beautiful sound, one that Ransom had missed badly for almost three weeks.

"What do you mean?" he asked, still chuckling. "Romantic dates with flowers and chocolate and candlelight dinner?"

"If that is what it takes, I'm willing to make a fool out of myself – to a certain extent," Ransom grinned. "But I actually thought of getting know each other better. Doing things together… I mean _other_ things, too. I'm not going to become all chaste at my old age."

"Well, that's a relief," Max joked, but his eyes were surprisingly sober, almost frightened. "You really want to get seriously involved, don't you?"

Ransom nodded. "I do. But I have to warn you: I never had a relationship that would last longer than a few months. It might not work out. We both might get hurt."

Max lifted an eyebrow. "Are you planning your escape already? Rudy, I know that such a thing could easily end up in a big mess. On the long run, I'm not an easy person. I have… issues with trusting, and before you ask, no, I have never been in any lasting relationship either. Hell, I don't even know if I'll be able to endure it."

"Hmmm," Ransom frowned. "So we both agree that this is probably a bad idea?"

"A _very bad one," Max emphasized. "We barely know each other, after all."_

"One that could turn into a disaster."

"A big one. Easily."

"And neither of us is able or willing to deal with _that_."

"Definitely."

They stared at each other hopelessly for a moment. Then Ransom lifted the younger man's chin gently with two fingers and kissed him on the mouth, slowly, seductively.

"Now, that we are in complete agreement about the gory details," he murmured, "do you still think we should give this… thing a try?"

"Mhm," Max replied unintelligibly, as his lips and tongue were already engaged in more enjoyable activities.

After an extended necking session, Max was finally forced to return to his controls, as course modifications were required.

"Rudy," he said warningly, "keep your hands to yourself. This is extremely… distracting, and I intend to arrive on the Base in one piece."

"I'm just… mapping territory," Ransom answered in a tone of hurt innocence. "It's a scientific issue."

Max shot him a stern look that somehow failed to be convincing. "You can do all the cartography later. Now get your hands off me!"

"You are no fun at all," Ransom pouted a little (something he hadn't done for at least twenty years), but couldn't keep up that appearance much longer. They both burst out in very undignified giggles, while the shuttle raced towards Starbase 80 at top speed.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Androna was the name of a Terellian captain (played by Martha Hackett), who was flying a ship fully of dying people to the space-time-anomaly in the final TNG-episode "All Good Things". Her part was cut from the final version.

(2) See the 1st season TNG-episode "Conspiracy".

(3) The Vulcan warp-shuttle (and this particular maneuver) was shown in Star Trek – The Motion Picture. Spock flew one of those, the _Surak_.

(4) If you are interested what the whole microcontamination project is, you can check it out in the TNG-novel "Contamination" by John Vorholt.

(5) More about Vulcan's history can be found in the TOS-novel "Spock's World" by Diane Duane. It's not exactly canon, though in my opinion, it should be.


	3. Chapter 3: Parting Ways

The Equinox logs 

**by Soledad**

LOG #1: IMPOSSIBLE ODDS 

**Disclaimer:** see in the Introduction.

**Rating:** R

**Author's notes:** This particular chapter happens shortly after the 4th season TNG-episode "Family" and deals a little with the aftermath of the devastating battle at Wolf 359.

For visuals: Commander Flaherty is "played" by Kiefer Sutherland, his wife by Brigid Brannagh.

**CHAPTER 3: PARTING WAYS**

Personal log of Lt. Cmdr. Rudolph Ransom.

Stardate: 44027.5

My sabbatical on Starbase 80 is nearing its end. I've managed to revise all the scientific data gathered during my former missions and prepare them as basic material for a possible thesis that might be written later. Now is time to move on. The Fleet had been decimated at Wolf 359 – eleven thousand personnel (including Fleet Admiral Hanson) and 39 starships were lost. We who have been spared have to fill the gaps now.

Earlier on, reassignments were no big deal for me. I'm used to travel light. But now, leaving the Base also means to say goodbye to Max for who knows how long, and _that_ is damn hard.

We have come so far in these recent months. At first it was not easy. Max keeps saying that he is not an easy person to live with, but the truth is: _I am the one with the tendency to protect my breathing space, to cling to my old routine, to try forcing others to adapt to my customs, my values, my opinions. I am a typical, single-minded and not very sociable scientist, more comfortable with lab animals than with people. Small wonder I get along with Vulcans so well._

Max has forced me to come out of my ivory tower and mingle with people. He didn't let me trap him, too, in my perfect high-tech cage. If I wanted to be with him, I had to go out with him; it was that simple. I asked him to move in with me, my quarters would have easily fit for two, but he refused, and he was right. Living separately saved me from taking him for granted, and him from feeling caged.

When it comes to our relationship, Max usually has the better instincts. My own possessive nature probably would have killed the whole thing after a week. But Max guards his personal freedom just as jealously as I guard mine, and I've come to think that it's better so – for both of us.

Oh, we had big fights at first. We are both stubborn men, and we both expect to have things run our way, no matter what. But we've learnt to make small compromises on our shared way – mostly due to Max' patience with me, I think.

We never speak of love, as if we were both afraid that naming it, putting a label on what we have, would break the spell and we would get bored and grow apart in no time. So we call it "this thing we have", or "our little secret", and by dozens of other silly names. Not that it would really be a secret – I informed Admiral T'Lara, right after our return from Vulcana Regar, and she accepted it with true Vulcan neutrality. We are not in the same chain of command, after all, not breaking any rules. She would have learnt of it anyway; people aren't blind. I just wanted her to hear it from me, and I think she appreciated the courtesy.

God, I'm getting talkative at my old age – something I never was. But to know that I can be reassigned any day now and have to leave Max makes me nervous. It will be hard to live without him. It would be very lonely in a bed alone again.

Ransom out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ransom was so worried about his own reassignment that he left the other aspect out of consideration. So he was completely thunderstruck, when two days later Max dropped by in his lab and handed him a PADD.

"I've been reassigned," the younger man said matter-of-factly.

Ransom swallowed hard. "Where to?"

"The scout ship _Corvus," Max replied. "The Cardassian border."_

_Oh, by the Fates! The most volatile territory aside of the Romulan Neutral Zone!_

"I see," was all Ransom could say. "When…"

"Effective immediately." Max sighed. Then, seeing all blood being drawn from the older man's face, he hurried to add, "But the next crew transporter won't dock in before next week, so we'll have four or five days left for us. I can't get there by shuttle, it's too far away."

"Damn far away," Ransom agreed, still somewhat shocked. He knew, the reality of their parting will sink in later, much more painfully. But that was Starfleet. Not even married couples could always expect the same assignment. Especially in a situation like the current one. They all knew that when they signed up.

"Rudy," Max touched his face gently; they usually didn't allow themselves open signs of intimacy, but right now the brief contact was needed and much appreciated, "we knew this day would come…"

"But I always thought that I would be the one who gets reassigned," Ransom answered a little sheepishly. Max laughed.

"And you just don't like when the brass make a strike through your expectations, do you? Besides, who says you won't be reassigned? Your orders can come in any time, too."

That was true, of course, and Ransom, too, had to laugh about his own reaction. Max slapped his back.

"You see? The voice of reason, that's what I am. Now, let's go to Börek's, shall we? I'm hungry."

"You are always hungry," Ransom grinned, but rose to follow the younger man anyway. Max shot him  a sultry look over his shoulder."

"Small wonder, considering how much you wear me off all the time…"

_Börek's Cantina was rather crowded, but with all the ships towed in for repairs that was not surprising in these days. Most of the customers were Starfleet personnel, but Ransom didn't find any familiar faces among them – except a ruddy-faced, sandy-haired man in his early forties, wearing a command uniform with a full commander's pins on his collar. He was sitting with a round-faced woman who had cat-like hazel eyes and un unruly mass of thick, curly russet hair that reached down to her waist._

"Who are they?" Max asked, following Ransom's gaze. The older man shrugged.

"I don't know the woman. But the man is Commander Flaherty, the…"

"… the first officer of the _Aries_, yes, I remember now." Working still for Operations, Max, of course, knew such things, and his memory was much better than Ransom's when it come to remembering names or faces. "They've docked in yesterday for repairs. Isn't this the guy who is said to speak several dozen alien languages?"

"More than forty, or so I am told," Ransom replied. "He can even talk to Börek in his mother tongue."

"Really?" Max was impressed. "I always thought you'd need those special skin folds around your neck for that. You know, for producing the correct… noises. Sounds. Whatever. Stroyerian is one of the weirdest languages in our galaxy. How does Flaherty manage to pronounce them?"

"Apparently, this is a special talent." Ransom nodded his thanks when Börek placed before them tonight's choice of dinner. "His vocal cords must be incredible elastic, though."

"He seems to know you as well," Max noticed. Ransom shook his head.

"I wouldn't know where from. We never actually met."

"Your reputation precedes you, I guess," Max joked, though he had the sinking feeling that there would be more than just _that_. So had Ransom. He was a good enough scientist, but he hadn't done or discovered anything yet that would make him known all over the Fleet.

"I don't think so," he repeated thoughtfully. "It seem me more like new orders hovering just beyond visual range."

His instinct proved to be working fine. Barely had they finished their dinner, Börek trudged to their table to collect the empty dishes and delivered a message.

"Commander Flaherty," he grunted, trying to point towards the person in question with his chin, as his hands were full. Börek didn't share the human prejudice that pointing at someone with his finger would be rude. Of course, he didn't have a chin either, at least not one that would be visible among the low-hanging skin folds of his face, which made the attempt rather futile. "Want you come table his. Have talk," the alien added, satisfied with his explaining skills, and left.

Max frowned a little, having less experience with interpreting Börek's unique speech patterns. "Have you just been invited over to the Commander's table?"

"I guess I have," Ransom stood. "You coming?"

"Börek didn't say a word about _me_ being invited," Max pointed out. Ransom's jaw tightened.

"_I invite you. Whatever Flaherty has to say, it will have an effect on both of us."_

"All right, but if he gets mad, you'll pay the price."

"Agreed. Now, let's go."

They walked over to the other table and stood at attention, as Flaherty outranked them both.

"At ease, Commander… Ensign," the sandy-haired man waved a hand. "Please, have a seat. First of all, allow me t introduce myself: commander Seamus Flaherty, but I'd be grateful if you could forget my first name. I hate it. And this is Moira O'Brien. My wife."

"My pleasure, Ma'am," Ransom said with a polite nod. The woman smiled.

"The pleasure is all mine, gentlemen." Her voice had the same, soft Irish lilt as Flaherty's, and from this close the fine lines around her eyes and mouth were clearly visible. She couldn't be much younger than her husband.

"Ensign Maxwell Burke," Ransom introduced Max, adding as an afterthought, "my partner." This was the first time he actually said it publicly. He wished badly to gauge Max' reaction, but turning to him would have been impolite. He was talking to a ranking officer, after all.

Flaherty nodded. "I know. Börek is much more… talkative in his own tongue. Now, Mr. Ransom, I presume you know what I'm about to tell you."

"I can make an educated guess," Ransom smiled thinly. "You are bringing my new orders."

"Signed by Admiral Savar(1) personally," Flaherty said. "The official document will be handed to you by Captain Rixx tomorrow, but here is the basic information you might want." He gave Ransom a PADD, "Congratulations. You are the new chief science officer of the USS _Aries_. Effective immediately."

"Thank you, sir," Ransom felt a little dazed. He never expected to be made the head of science department. It was a promotion brought to him by the deaths of so many more likely candidates, perhaps.

Then something occured to him.

"Captain Rixx?" he asked. "Was he not in command of the _Thomas Paine_?"

Flaherty nodded. "He was. But the _Paine_, too, has been lost at Wolf 359, and our captain was killed in that same battle, so Starfleet Command gave us the captain without a ship. We've been lucky. He's a good officer: experienced, open-minded and a sound strategist."

"Have you served with him before?" Ransom asked. He knew the Bolian officer by reputation and looked forward to discuss with him the issue of the alien parasites that had undermined Starfleet Command three years earlier – _if Rixx was willing to talk about it, that is._

"No," Flaherty said, "but we went to the Academy together. He was two years my senior and the flight instructor of my class."

"That was when you learned Bolian," his wife added with a smile.

"Among other things," Flaherty agreed. "I've come to respect him greatly. It'll be good to serve with him. He's known to run a tight ship, but he's not a desk-jockey, and for my part, I'm all for proper discipline."

"You do have a military mind," his wife remarked with mild disapproval, before turning to Ransom. "Have you ever served on a _Renaissance_-class starship, Mr. Ransom?"

"No, Ma'am. All my former assignments were _Berengaria_-class lab barges."

"You'll love the _Aries_ then," O'Brien promised. "She's a beauty."

"Aren't they all?" Ransom smiled. Indeed, all starships of the Fleet were a marvel, each one on her own way. "Are you coming with us, too?"

"You bet I am," she grinned. "This is the first time Sam and I have managed to get assigned to the same ship."

Ransom assumed that 'Sam' would be a substitute for Flaherty's much-hated first name. "Let me guess," he said. "You're the ships counselor."

"Gods, no!" she laughed. "Why do all people believe that every woman with long, curly hair _has to be a therapist? Nah, thanks! I'm a diagnostic engineer and happy about it. Circuits and isolinear chips are a much easier business than peoples' minds."_

"I don't doubt that," Ransom grinned back at her, then looked at Flaherty again. "When exactly am I expected to report for duty, Commander?"

"Right at the beginning of the first watch, 08.00 hours board time, which conveniently is the same as station time."

Ransom sighed, casting a resigned look at Max. "And we thought we'd have four or five days left…" At Moira O'Brien's confused face he added, "Max has been reassigned, too. The crew transporter will be picking him up within the week."

"The _Aries won't be leaving until the repairs are done," Flaherty shrugged. "Your off-time is still yours, whether you are assigned to our ship or to the Base. I'll put in a good word by the XO for you."_

They all laughed. Then Flaherty added, "That will be all, Mr. Ransom. I know the two of you will have some serious talking to do. I've done the same thing many time. Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir. Ma'am."

Ransom paid the bill – it was his week – and they left, both fearing the conversation that lay before them."

"I… I can help you to pack your things," Max offered vaguely, but Ransom winked off.

"No need for that. Most of my stuff has been packed already."

"Eager to leave the docks, weren't you?" Max joked listlessly. Ransom gave him an exasperated look.

"Don't be ridiculous. I knew the reassignment would come sooner or later, and I didn't want to leave packing for the last minute. You know how much I hate to work under pressure."

"True," Max dropped onto a seat. "You and your old-fashioned ways. But at least you are thorough. In everything you do."

"I know," Ransom sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the back of the other seat and closed his eyes. "That's why you love me."

The witty riposte he had expected never came. Slightly surprised, he opened his eyes again to look up into Max' pensive face.

"Max… what's wrong?"

"I was just realizing that we've never given it a name," Max answered slowly, echoing Ransom's thoughts from two days earlier unknowingly. "Not even in a joke. For whatever reason."

"Do we need a name?" Ransom asked in surprise. Max shrugged uncertainly.

"I don't know, Rudy. Maybe we should have named it while we still had the time… Should have given a name to this… 'thing between us'."

"What do you mean with 'while we still had the time'?" Ransom demanded. "Are you going to break up with me? To end our… our relationship? Is that what you want?"

Max shook his head sadly. "Nah, I don't _want_ to end this… whatever we have, but let's face it, Rudy, it won't last. We can't even call it what it is, and we both know that subspace relationships never work on the long run."

"There are married couples who last decades that way," Ransom argued.

"Yeah, but they have more in common than just sex," Max pointed out ruthlessly. "They have a home, children, shared interests… The only interest _we share is the one in each other's body. I mean, the sex is great, and I like you as a person – I really like you a lot, to be honest – but that's just not enough. When you asked me to give this – __us – a chance, you spoke about learning to know each other better, doing things together…"_

"Yes. And?"

"Rudy, the only thing we've learnt about each other has been what the other likes in bed. Which is a great thing, I won't deny it, we've had a fantastic time… but it's too small a basis to build something lasting upon it."

"Are you speaking about commitment?" Ransom was stunned. That was the last thing he'd expected from his fiercely independent lover.

Max shook his head. "No, I'm not ready for that. Not yet. Maybe I'll never be. All I ask you is to give me free. After we have parted ways."

Ransom frowned, not quite sure he understood. "What do you mean?"

Max sighed. "Look, we probably won't be seeing each other for years. And if yet, then only for short times. Don't expect me to wait for you in chastity like a virgin bride."

Ransom took a sharp breath, his ears ringing from the power of the blow that Max had dealt with surgical precision. "What are you saying…?"

"I'm saying that I'm not made to live in celibacy for an extended amount of time. And neither are you, if you ask yourself honestly. We're both guys. We know what's it like."

"Are you asking my permission to cheat on me?" Ransom still couldn't trust his ears.

"No, I'm not," Max said, and for the first time there was a hard edge in his voice. "I don't need your 'permission' for anything. We are not married, nor engaged, nor promised to each other in any way. You have no claim on me, nor do you own me. We agreed to try out this… thing, and it obviously hasn't worked out."

"I've had a different impression."

"Because you are lying to yourself. And since we are speaking openly anyway. Let me tell you another thing. We are not having a 'relationship'. That would mean actual caring. All we've had was a torrid affair – one which is obviously over."

"Just like that? And hadn't we met Commander Flaherty today, when were you planning to tell me that?"

"Before boarding the crew transporter." At Ransom's dumbstruck expression Max sighed and tried to explain. "Rudy, I loved what we had together. I wanted it to last as long as possible. I just don't believe that it could stand forth through long periods of separation, that's all."

"I see," Ransom said after a long pause. "You should go, Max."

"Rudy, I…"

"Get out!" Ransom repeated, without looking at him. "And don't bother to return. Ever."

"Fine," Max stood, his face hard as stone. "I'll go. But don't come begging to me when you realize that nobody will put up with your possessive nature on the long haul."

And off he went, without looking back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As most of his stuff was waiting in the big, feather-light metal suitcases already, packing the rest didn't took Ransom more than an hour. Then he called the lab center.

"Do you ever sleep, Androna?" he asked, when the thin, exotic Terellian woman appeared on his screen.

"Twelve hours in every twenty-six days," the dispatcher replied matter-of-factly. "Of course, in Standard measures it sounds a little complicated. What can I do for you, Commander?"

"I've been reassigned to the USS _Aries_. Can you arrange for me that my lab files and printouts get transferred to the ship's science department?"

"Of course, but why the hurry? The _Aries_ won't leave space dock for another ten days, And that's a very careful estimate."

"That may be so. Yet I decided to transfer all my stuff immediately and to move into my new quarters aboard."

"Well, it's your choice, of course." The slanted eyes in that strangely… molten face looked at him with sympathy. "What are you running from, Commander? Or whom?"

"You've read too many Terran romance novels, Androna. I'm not running from anything… or anyone."

"If you say so, Commander," she replied, clearly not believing a word of it. "If you say so. I think your are making a big mistake. But it's your mistake to make."

"My thoughts exactly. Thank you, Androna. Ransom out."

After that, he called the _Aries_ and asked for his stuff being beamed over. The duty officer acknowledged his orders, and ten minutes later he was beamed aboard as well. A crewman in a security uniform led him the way to his assigned quarters. They were even more spacey than the ones he had on the Starbase – more than enough for a married couple if necessary – and they were empty, except for his suitcases that were standing in the living-room amidst the Starfleet-issue furniture like silent monuments of a life without any roots.

_I think you are making a big mistake, the gentle voice of Androna echoed in his head._

He began to agree with the Terellian woman.

But it was already too late.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the next morning he reported to duty at 08.00 as ordered. Meeting the renowned Captain Rixx face to face was a somewhat intimidating experience, but at least it gave him something else to agonize about than his failed relationship.

The night (which he had spent awake) allowed him to rethink everything Max had said, and though some of it had been exaggerated due to the younger man's own emotional turmoil, he had to admit that Max had been right. Not much had come true from the big words spoken at their reunion. Perhaps the both had their share in the blame, but at least Max had _tried_. Tried to drag him out of his lab, to make him interested in more than just his work, to make him meet people. For the first two or three months anyway.

Until he'd realized that it was hopeless. Afterwards, Max had simply gone out without Ransom, alone or with his pals from Operations, having fun and flirting with every pretty girl he'd met. Refusing to be imprisoned in Ransom's quarters. Refusing to be suffocated by his lover's possessiveness and jealousy.

Max was the first man Ransom really wanted to keep, and he didn't want to accept that Max couldn't be kept. Or confined. He shared himself willingly, but he wasn't ready to give up himself. It was that simple.

And Ransom hadn't understand it, until it was too late.

Fortunately, he had other concerns now. Taking over the science department of a _Renaissance-class starship was not a small thing. He promised himself to make good use of the time they were to spend in the drydocks. Though considerably smaller and less advanced than a __Galaxy-class starship, the __Aries still had sixteen science labs, with an equal number of section leaders and looked a lot like the old __Excelsior-class ships that had turned out to be the workhorses of the Fleet. With a crew complement of 250, it was a big ship… and it seemed that at least ten percent of the crew had to be replaced due to the losses at Wolf 359._

The check-in with Captain Rixx had been a quick and efficient one; it only took ten minutes. Afterwards, he was handed over to the first officer, who seemed a little surprised to find out the he had transferred to the _Aries already._

"I had the impression that you wanted to put the next four or five days to good use," Flaherty remarked, leaving the captain's ready room on Ransom's side.

"I did," Ransom replied flatly, "but it didn't work out that way."

Flaherty raised a sandy eyebrow but had the decency not to ask. Instead he escorted to new science officer to his department.

"You predecessor is just about to leave," Flaherty said. "He's been reassigned to the USS _Grissom."_

They reached the main entrance to the science department, but before they could have passed through, the double doors slid aside, and a stone-faced Vulcan in a blue uniform came out.

"Lieutenant Chu'lak(2)," Flaherty greeted him. "May I introduce your successor, Lieutenant Commander Ransom?"

They exchanged the usual platitudes, then the Vulcan left the _Aries, never to return. Rudy Ransom had his new empire all for himself – and less than two weeks to make himself familiar with it._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next few days were one big blur for Ransom. Always a rather private man, all those new faces (one third of the _Aries_' crew complement were scientists) made his head hurt. It took him two days just to meet all the section leaders and another two to get an overall picture about all the scientific projects currently running in his department. Work had always been the best way to deal with his personal problems, and this new assignment offered him more than enough distraction.

On the fifth day, however, he got an unexpected call from the Starbase. To his surprise, it was Börek. He couldn't even remember having seen the big Stroyerian using a comm unit before. Ever.

"Transport vessel," Börek told him in his usual disconnected speech patterns. "Two hours come. 19.00 leave."

And with that, the bulky alien broke the connection.

But the message was clear enough. The crew transporter that was scheduled to ferry Max to the Cardassian border had arrived two hours ago. It would leave at 19.00 hours. If Ransom wanted to see off his lover – well, ex-lover – he had two hours to do so.

The question was: _did_ he want to? He was not sure about the answer. He was not sure at all that Max wanted to see him, after the ugly scene with which they had parted.

On the other hand, they might never see each other again. The Cardassian border was a dangerous place, and who knew where the _Aries_ would be ordered after the repairs were done? Did he really want to let Max go, without a last look, without wishing him luck?

Someone cleared his throat, and Flaherty struck his head into the science officer's small office.

"Mr. Ransom? Your watch ended ten minutes ago. Be a gracious boss and allow Lieutenant Vanderweg to do her job. In the meantime, you should go over to the Starbase. A crew transporter is about to leave the dock in less than two hours; you shouldn't miss it. I'm told it's a spectacular sight."

Ransom didn't know if he should be amused and annoyed. "Why seems everyone to want playing matchmaker? First Androna, then Börek, of all people, and now you…"

Flaherty shrugged. "Because we care, perhaps? People have lost so much lately, at least the rest of us should be better off. Now, are you going or not? I can make it an order, you know."

"That won't be necessary, sir." Indeed, suddenly he felt very much the urgency to go. Flaherty grinned.

"Good. Off with you!"

Ransom didn't waste any time, let himself be beamed directly to the departure lounge of the spacedock. It was still too early, of course, but he didn't want to take any risks. The station computer told him that Max hadn't boarded the transport vessel yet. So all he had to do was to wait. And even that for a short time only.

Fifteen minutes later Max appeared in one of the entrances, with a Starfleet-issue duffel on one shoulder and another one in the other hand. Ransom realized that this was only the second time he'd seen Max in uniform. The younger man always wore civilian clothes in his off time.

He rose and crossed the lounge with long, determined strides before Max could have noticed his presence and disappeared again. The surprise of the young man was visible, and it hurt to know that Max really hadn't expected to see him.

"Rudy," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like?"

"Like you'd want to see me off."

"Then it must be the case, I guess."

"I thought you didn't want to see me again. Ever."

"I was angry," Ransom admitted. "And hurt. And I wanted to hurt you back."

"Congratulations," Max replied dryly. "You succeeded."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm such an idiot."

"Yes, you are," Max agreed. "A stubborn, pig-headed one, to be more accurate."

"All right, a stubborn, pig-headed idiot. But what you said really _did hurt, you know."_

"I know. But it was the truth, Rudy. I won't lie to you. Not even to spare your feelings."

"Well," Ransom said with morbid amusement, "I'd probably preferred if you lied."

"That's not in my nature," Max tilted his head. "Would it spare your feelings if I only 'cheated on you' with women?"

"No," Ransom answered with a sigh, "but I finally understood that you need your freedom. Maybe one day we'll have another new start. Maybe we'll get another chance to set this… thing between us right."

"I hope so," Max shifted the duffel on his shoulder. "I have to go, Rudy."

"I know," Ransom have him a quick hug and an even quicker kiss. "Take care, Max. And give a lifesign every time and again."

"You too," Max stepped back at arm's length, looked at him for a long moment as if he'd wanted to imprint his face in his memory – then he turned away and was gone.

For a very long time.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) See the 1st season TNG-episode "Conspiracy". Also for Captain Rixx and the alien parasites.

(2) I'm stretching here the timeline a little, according to the 7th season DS9-episode "Field of Fire". But it'd almost match canon. Chu'lak had served ten years on the _Grissom before the ship got destroyed in the Dominion war._


	4. Chapter 4: The Renegade

**THE EQUINOX LOGS**

**by Soledad**

**LOG #1: IMPOSSIBLE ODDS **

**Disclaimer:** see in the Introduction.

**Rating:** G, for this chapter

**Author's notes:** This particular chapter happens shortly after the 4th season TNG-episode "Suddenly Human". So far, all previous chapters have been written from Ransom's POV, for the simple reason that he is the main hero of "The Equinox Logs". Now that he and Max are separated, the POV is going to switch back and forth between the two of them. There won't be much action in this chapter, I'm afraid – it's all about Max settling in.

The characters appearing in this chapter are mostly canonical and were borrowed from various TNG-episodes or DS9, assuming that they have been transferred _from_ the _Enterprise_ or will be transferred there in the future. If you are interested in the full crew manifest of either the _Aries _or that of the _Renegade_, send me a private e-mail and you'll get them (as far as they are figured out, of course).

More background trivia (like character bios) can be found in the Files section of the Memory Alpha Yahoo Group. The link is on my bio page.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4: THE _RENEGADE_**

Personal Log of Ensign Maxwell Burke

Stardate: 44145.7

The way from Starbase 80 to Starbase 211(1) had been the longest and most boring one in my entire life. Heck, even a milk run aboard Papa Yates' old rustbin was more exciting! This sluggish monstrosity of a crew transporter needed _sixteen_ days to get from Vulcan to the Cardassian border. _Sixteen_ frigging days! All right, they needed to stop at each and every basis on our way and had to perform rendezvous maneuvers with at least a dozen starships to get all personnel where they – _we_ – were supposed to be. But still, _sixteen_ days…

We have day seventeen now, and about to establish stationary orbit over Starbase 211. I'd say it's about time. I'm bored to tears and just about starting to climb up the walls. I'm a pilot, damnit, inactivity isn't something I do well – plus, it leaves me too much time to think.

I don't want to think about _it_. About Rudy, and what we had and if we could have it again, ever. I don't want to hope. I want a fresh start, free from old emotional baggage. So, I'm looking forward to departing this barge and facing new challenges. Burke out.

* * *

Max was truly relieved to be able to depart the crew transporter after more than two weeks with only himself for company. Standing in the arrival lounge and taking a look around alone was a delight.

Unlike Starbase 80, this one was a planetary base, dug deeply into massive rock on an uninhibited Class G planet, barely able to support humanoid life – and fortified like nothing Max had ever seen before.

Which was not surprising, considering the fact that this was the closest Federation base to the Cardassian border. As such, it was assigned to organize the border patrols and to protect Minos Kova and the other colonies threatened by the close proximity of the aggressive, war-like Cardassian Union. The war between Cardassia and the Federation might have been over – barely – but the former enemies were still glaring at each other suspiciously across the border zone. And considering Starfleet's heavy losses at Wolf 359, there was a fair chance that the Cardassians would jump at the opportunity and fall the Federation in the back.

Accordingly, Starbase 211 had been equipped with planetary phaser cannons, advanced forcefields and more ships than had ever been stationed there before. Unfortunately, many of those ships were older models, hurriedly pulled out of shipyards where they had been waiting to be taken apart, and refitted as well as it could be done.

"Looks like a starship cemetery," Max commented under his breath, his hopes sinking.

"It is, basically," a high-pitched voice answered, and looking to the left, he discovered a small, exotic Creole woman in Services gold, standing just a few steps away. "It took us weeks, working 24/7, to get them into space again."

Max grinned at her. He liked petite women with well-developed curves on all the right places. "You an engineer?"

She gave him a thousand megawatt smile and held out a small but surprisingly strong hand. "Ensign Gina Ravarra, at your service. You got a shipwreck I could get flying again?"

Max laughed and shook her hand. "Max Burke. I'm afraid, it'll take a long time 'till I get my own ship… if ever."

"You are a pilot," she wasn't asking. "You do have that flyboy attitude. Which ship are you assigned to?"

"The _Corvus_. Can you show me which one is it?"

"Sure," she smiled again, and Max fought the urge to close his ayes as not to be blinded by that smile. "I've worked on her for weeks, after all… she's almost ready now."

"_Almost_?" Max was getting an uneasy feeling. "Which one _is_ it?"

She pointed at one of the ships on the large viewscreen of the arrival lounge. Max had to grab the railing for leverage.

"You gotta be kidding!"

"She shrugged. "Afraid not. That's the U.S.S. _Corvus_, NCC-620, a _Hermes_-class scout ship. Dead weight 94,500 metric tons, safe cruising speed warp 6, maximum travelling velocity warp 8 – assuming it won't fall apart at warp 6.5 already, of course – overall length 2,425 metres. It has one main phaser array with two phaser banks and a crew complement of 20 officers and 175 crewmen(2)."

"Not to mention the fact that she must be at least a hundred years old," Max said, shocked.

"More or less," Ravarra admitted. "She and eight of her sister ships have been authorized by Starfleet appropriation of Stardate 5099. They were specifically outfitted for regular duty as command and diplomatic couriers."

"Great," Max rolled his eyes," just great. Diplomatic courier ships against _Galor_-class Cardassian destroyers. We're gonna have overwhelming chances to protect the colonies. _And_ to survive."

"Don't panic," the engineer sounded annoyingly optimistic. "The MK VIIB-class ships used to be tough little bastards; besides, we have practically rebuilt the _Corvus_ from the inside out, upgrading her systems to 24th century standards. Her hull plates are practically the only parts left."

"Let's hope they'll be able to handle the strain the new engines put on them," Max said pessimistically. Ravarra blinded him with another radiant smile.

"Well, it takes a good pilot to fly her," she said teasingly, "but as long as you don't push her beyond warp 6, there should be no problems at all."

"Oh, that's really reassuring," Max commented with biting sarcasm. "And what if the spoonheads decide to give us a hot pursuit _beyond_ warp 6? What am I supposed to do then?"

"Cruise ahead at warp 6 and try to look brave?" Ravarra offered, and they both burst out in slightly hysterical laughter. There was nothing funny in their situation, but Max appreciated the young engineer's attempt to face impossible odds with good humour.

"Come," Ravarra said when they managed to calm down, "I'll take you to our ship. The main transporter room is over there, just around the corner."

"_Our_ ship?" Max repeated in surprise. "You coming with us?"

Ravarra nodded. "Yep. Admiral Haden, the esteemed commanding officer of this base, thinks it's the best to send the engineering crew that has worked _on_ the ship _with_ the ship. He says the engineers are better motivated to outdo themselves this way." She grinned again. "Chief Engineer Logan was _not_ happy to hear that. He used to work on the _Enterprise_, you know, and hoped to become Chief Engineer there, or at least on the base. So, I'd advise you not to cross his path during your first weeks aboard. He has a deep aversion towards pilots, they say, ever since Lt. LaForge outsmarted him a couple of years ago."

"But LaForge isn't a pilot," Max said with a frown.

"Not now," Ravarra agreed; the senior crew of Starfleet's flagship was well known everywhere. "He got Logan's job after his promotion – which is another reason why our lovely chief hates pilots so much."

"You seem to be really smitten with your boss," Max teased.

"Logan is a very good engineer," Ravarra said, a little defensively, "even though he has the charming personality of a rattlesnake. One can learn from him a lot – just _working_ for him, well, it's less than pleasant."

* * *

They still laughed when thy entered the main transporter room of the base. Ravarra nodded to the middle-aged, ash blonde woman, who was operating the consoles, politely.

"Greetings, Chief Brossmer. This is our new helmsman, Ensign Burke."

"Nice to meet you, Ensign," the tired-looking women nodded back, a little distracted. "You were the last addition we've been waiting for. Please step onto the platform and don't worry; your atoms are in good hands."

Max smiled at the tired attempt of a joke from the apparently overstressed transporter chief and obeyed. In the next moment, he felt the familiar tingle of the transporter beam and rematerialized aboard his new ship. There Ravarra introduced him to assistant engineer Salazar, who happened to be on duty, then shepherded him down to Sickbay for the obligatory physical check.

Going to sickbay for the routine check was the part of a new assignment Max had always hated. At least the CMO of the _Renegade_ – a big, easy-going, dark-skinned man from Alpha Centauri IV, who, mercifully, had switched to a name in Standard when joining Starfleet(3) – spared him the usual remarks of him being malnourished, too thin, too high-strung… whatever other doctors liked to pester him with.

"Your metabolism is slightly faster than the human norm," was all the CMO said, "but that seems to be the result of a minimal overfunction of your thyroid gland. Nothing serious."

Max rolled his eyes. "Thanks, doc, I know that. Every time I get transferred somewhere, some physician tries to talk me into getting it fixed."

Dr. Martin tilted his head curiously. "That's understandable. This is a minor dysfunction that can be easily corrected. Why didn't you let them fix it?"

"I'm not really sure," Max shrugged. "I've been like this all my life; it keeps me sharp, keeps me on my toes. I don't want to lose that."

"That's highly unlikely, you know," Dr. Martin pointed out mildly.

"I know. Theoretically. But I'm not taking any risks. It won't cause any lapses in my duty performance, will it?"

"Of course not. You are completely healthy, Ensign… you just burn your fuel faster than necessary. I assume you need to eat a lot to keep up with your energy, do you?"

Max grinned. "Trust me, doc, that is the real bonus in the whole thing. I _love_ to eat."

Dr. Martin grinned back. "Well then, Ensign, try to stay on the good side of the food replicator. You are fit for duty. I'll inform the captain. In the meantime, you might want to check in with the XO as soon as possible."

There was something in the doctor's voice, an unmistakable warning that told Max that his new commanding officer was not the easiest person to serve with. He remembered that Ensign Ravarra had, basically, said something similar about Chief Engineer Logan. He groaned inwardly, wishing he were back on Starbase 80. Admiral T'Lara, surprisingly open-minded for a Vulcan, had left everyone alone, as long as they hadn't directly violated any regulations. Here, though, he seemed to have managed to get a really hard-assed senior staff above his head. Well, at least the CMO was nice and friendly.

"Thanks doc," he said, a little dully. "I guess I'll better be going now."

Dr. Martin nodded. "You are welcome, Ensign. And remember, not so long ago doctors used to double as ship's counselors as well."

Which meant in translation: _If you have any problems with your superiors, come to me. I might not be able to help, but I'll listen – and I'll handle it discretely._

"I'll keep that in mind," Max replied and left.

* * *

To his surprise, he found Ensign Ravarra waiting for him on the corridor.

"The XO said I should escort you to the bride," she explained.

That seemed a little… odd, after all, everyone could find their way aboard a Starfleet ship by simply following the way displayed on the computer interfaces along the corridors, but Max decided to shut up for the time being. There could be some sort of peculiar inner regulations about introducing new crewmembers. Every ship had her own set of unofficial rules.

As they went on, however, Max' suspicion deepened. No way could these corridors belong to a 23rd century relic. Not even to a completely rebuilt one. The measures, the proportions, the construction, were all wrong – besides, the whole thing didn't seem as if it would have been completely overhauled right now. On the contrary: it looked like a relatively new ship that had been through a lot and patched together hurriedly, to be spaceborn in time.

"Gina," Max said quietly, "we are _not_ aboard the _Corvus_, are we?"

"As far as any outsiders are considered, we are," she replied enigmatically, "and you'd do right to memorize the specifications of the _Corvus_ and recite all the irrelevant details every time anyone asks you about your current assignment. That's all I can say – the rest is for the XO to tell."

This wasn't something Max'd have found very reassuring, but at the moment he couldn't do anything else but nod and follow her. They went straight to the bridge, and as they stopped out of the turbolift, Max recognized the configuration at once. It had a striking similarity with the bridge of a _Galaxy_-class starship, aside from its much smaller size and from the lack of multiple science stations.

Which meant that the ship masquerading as the _Corvus_ must have been one of those light frigates designed for patrol and combat duty, mostly. These ships didn't have a full science crew, just one science station on the main bridge and one science officer on each duty shift. That was normally enough to do some rudimentary analysis on previously unknown phenomena they might run into. After that, a science vessel would come and do the actual research work, if necessary.

Looking around on the bridge, Max could see that the crew was still working frantically on getting their ship operative. A Bolian and a Tellarite were lying under the engineering station, having a low-voiced conversation only an engineer could understand. A very young Vulcan woman sat at the helm, sharing bridge duty with an equally young, olive-skinned human woman at Ops.

At Tactical stood a man who made the hairs on the nape of Max' neck bristle involuntarily. The stranger was about his height, maybe just an inch or two taller, but more heavily set. There was a compact solidity about this stranger, an obvious strength in his neck and shoulders – he practically radiated physical power.

The man was wearing a golden uniform and some unusually-shaped rank pins on his collar. Max was sure they weren't regular Starfleet rank pins: three slashes on an oval-shaped golden background. Unless, of course, the man had a field rank for some reason, in which case he must have been quite a big shot. Three slashes usually meant a field Commander, at least theoretically. Max couldn't remember that this particular field rank would have ever been given to anyone in recent Starfleet history.

The man had a regular, almost boyish face, with defined cheekbones and thick dark hair… quite handsome, actually, if not for the look in those dark eyes – they glittered with tightly-controlled aggression, something rarely seen aboard a Starfleet vessel.

That, and the cranial implant in his left temple – and uncomfortable reminder of the Borg, whose memory haunted everyone in these days. A feature he shared with his fellow tactical officer, a tall, dark-skinned, broad shouldered, exotic-looking woman with beautiful almond eyes that hid the some suppressed aggression. _What_ were these people? Cyborgs? On a Federation ship? And that right after the near-fatal encounter with the Borg? What was Starfleet Command thinking? Small wonder that the whole mission was wrapped in secrecy.

Max quickly turned his head, not wanting to be caught staring at them. They must have been some Special Forces agents; it was better not to provoke such guys.

Ravarra escorted him to the command chair, in which a man in his early forties sat, supervising the bridge crew calmly. He looked familiar, but at the moment Max couldn't remember where they might have met.

"Ensign Burke, sir," she said.

The man, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander, nodded and rose.

"Thank you, Ensign Ravarra. Please return to your duty station. Ensign Burke, come with me. I'll introduce you to our mission. Commander Danar, you have the bridge."

"Aye, sir," the man with the cranial implant walked down to the vacated command chair, and the first officer gestured to Max to follow him to the captain's ready room.

* * *

As he went with his new commanding officer, Max caught a brief glimpse of the ship's dedication plaque. It said: U.S.S. _Renegade_, NCC – 63102. He very nearly stopped on his track. That was his new assignment – definitely something else than Papa Yates' freighter! Of course he had already heard of this ship. Everybody at the Academy had. The _Renegade_ and her sister ships, the _Kyushu_, the _Rutledge_ and the _Thomas Paine_, were considered the joy and pride of the Fleet.

The _Renegade_ was a _New Orleans_-class starship with an elliptic saucer section, and generally looked like a considerably smaller version of the famous _Galaxy_-class vessels, being about 320 meters long and approximately 246 meters wide. Except the fact that she had two additional pods on the top of the saucer and one pod underneath the engineering hull. Calling up the blueprints in his memory, Max realized that the two upper pods held photon torpedo tubes, while the one under the engineering hull housed a sensor array on the bug and a shuttle bay on the rear. The added elements did nothing to lessen the elegant design, though. These ships were real beauties, and cadets dreamed about serving on them almost as much as about serving on a _Galaxy_-class ship.

The XO noticed Max' surprise but didn't say anything until the door closed behind them. Then the XO sat down behind the captain's desk, while Max took on the best ramrod-straight military posture he was capable of.

"Ensign Maxwell Burke reporting for duty as ordered, Commander."

"At ease, Ensign. Please, have a seat. You don't have to go all militaristic on _me_," the emphasis hadn't gone unnoticed by Max. "By the way, we have a Lt. Todd Burke aboard, in the security section. Are the two of you related in some way?

"I don't think so, sir," Max replied. "As far as I know, I have no living family left. And Burke is a fairly common name."

"True enough," the XO nodded. "Well, I'm Lieutenant Commander Joshua Albert."

Now Max realized where he knew the man from – he'd seen him at the Academy a few times. Josh Albert jr. had just started his studies in the same year Max had graduated, and the lieutenant commander had visited his son regularly. Max had never actually spoken to the man, but having a familiar face aboard was nice nevertheless.

"I remember you, sir," he said, "from the Academy, when you visited Josh. But you were wearing gold, back then."

"Yes, I was," Lt. Commander Albert nodded. "I used to be the chief of security aboard the U.S.S. _Melbourne_. But I've been asked to switch to command after the destruction of my ship," his face, still bearing the burn marks from the disaster, was strangely unmoved. "Too many experienced officers died at Wolf 359. The survivors have been scattered all across the Fleet. I've just got assigned to the _Renegade_ – as her first officer."

"I've heard that the _Renegade_ has been badly damaged at Wolf 359, too" Max said, carefully. The lieutenant commander nodded.

"She has. She is still undergoing repairs, as you can see. That is why the new crewmembers were being flown in, instead being picked up from their former posts."

"I still don't understand, sir," Max frowned. "My orders say I have been assigned to the U.S.S. _Corvus_…"

"No, you haven't Ensign. Those orders were only a guise. You've been assigned to the _Renegade_ all the time – or did you really believe that a hundred-year-old courier ship could be pulled out of the Fleet Museum and refitted to match 24th century standards?"

"I _was_ wondering," Max admitted. "But I'm not very good at engineering stuff, and Ensign Ravarra was very – persuasive. Besides, I _saw_ the _Corvus_ on the main screen of Starbase 211's arrival lounge."

"Ensign Ravarra does her job very well," Lt. Cmdr. Albert smiled. "That's why we usually send her to fetch newcomers. As for the picture you saw, that had been manipulated, of course. And the _Renegade_'s computer is programmed to send a false ID-signal."

"I see," Max hesitated for a moment. "But why the deception?"

"To mislead Cardassian or Romulan spies about the true strength of our remaining forces," Albert explained.

Max nodded. That made sense. Then something occurred to him. "But why hide the _Renegade_? She's not some powerful destroyer or a _Galaxy_-class ship that could be considered a threat."

"You are absolutely right, Ensign," the XO nodded. "But the _Renegade_ has been assigned to a very… specific kind of mission."

"_How_ specific?" Max felt this stomach tightening.

The XO gave him a long, hard look, as if weighing how much he should tell.

"Covert operations," he finally said. "Do you have a problem with that, Ensign?"

Max hesitated. On the pro side, covert ops promised a lot of fast flying, quick decisions, excitement. On the other side, however, it also could mean a very sudden death – or, what was even worse, Cardassian captivity.

"Aye, sir," he replied bluntly, "I do have a problem with that. I wasn't trained for this sort of thing; and I don't have a death wish."

"Good," the XO said calmly. "Had you said that you didn't have a problem with the mission, I'd have sent you back to Starbase 80. We can't use heroes here. You've been chosen for this assignment because you were the best of your class. Because you have the quickest reflexes – and because nobody knows you, so your assignment to the '_Corvus_' wouldn't raise any suspicions. It'd have been hard to explain if we chose a better known pilot."

Max made a wry face. "I can't politely refuse the honour, can I?"

"Do you want to?" Lt. Cmdr. Albert asked in all seriousness.

Max shrugged. "I'm not exactly _afraid_ if that's what you mean, sir. Serving on a freighter held together by spit and prayer wasn't very safe, either. I just feel way too unqualified for this super secret stuff, that's all."

"You _are_ unqualified," the XO admitted. "We all are. But for the covert ops, we have experts on board. All you are expected to do is to fly the ship; and fly her well."

"Experts?" Max frowned. "You meant those cyborg people?"

"Careful; don't ever let them hear you say that," the XO warned. "They are not cyborgs – they are Angosians, hired by Starfleet, for exactly this sort of work."

"Angosians?" Max repeated. "As in Angosian veterans? As in super-soldiers, genetically enhanced, repeatedly implanted and programmed to survive by any means necessary?(4)"

Lt. Cmdr. Albert raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You are surprisingly well informed, Ensign. I didn't know that the logs of the _Enterprise_ were part of the curriculum at the Academy."

"They weren't," Max said, "but we had a few classmates with _really_ high-ranking parents. They could get any information they wanted. I never asked how."

"That was probably a sensitive thing to do," the XO said. "And you'd do better aboard the _Renegade_ if you kept that discretion, Ensign. Captain Scott runs a tight ship – it wasn't luck alone that brought the _Renegade_ back from Wolf 359 while thirty-nine other ships didn't make it. I assume you _have_ heard of Captain Tryla Scott already?"

"Who hasn't?" Max snorted in half-amusement. "She is something of a legend – the one who earned the command of a starship at a younger age than any previous captain, even James T. Kirk. _Everyone_ at the Academy dreamed about breaking her record. Too bad that the thing with those alien parasites caused such a setback in her career."

Lt. Cmdr. Albert gave him a sharp look.

"How can _you_ know about that? It's restricted information, eyes only. Certainly not something the cadets would be told. Oh, wait… those fellow cadets with high-ranking parents again, right?"

Max nodded.

"I see. Starfleet Command will have to do something about that," the XO paused. "Anyway, if I were you, I wouldn't bring up the matter of the parasites, Ensign. Captain Scott doesn't react well when someone brings up the matter of those aliens. They made her fire at the _Horatio_, after all… at one of our own ships. Killing all hands aboard, including Captain Walker Keel, who used to be her mentor."

"What...?" Max was too shocked to speak. The lieutenant commander looked at him sharply again.

"I haven't told you this, Ensign, to gossip. I wanted to make you understand the burden Captain Scott is carrying. You are going to serve as the chief helmsman of the _Renegade_, meaning that you'll be part of the senior staff, despite your rank and age. You need to know certain things the rest of the crew would never learn. I hope you're up to that responsibility."

"I'll do my best, sir," Max shook his head in amazement. "But me as chief helmsman? It's really…"

"… necessary," Lt. Cmdr. Albert cut in. "As I said, our forces are spread thin due to Wolf 359. Young people will have to grow up faster than expected. But now that I've met you, I'm not worried about you any longer. You might be young, but you have an old soul. You'll manage."

Max thought about the strange compliment for a moment, then nodded. The XO was right. He was a survivor. He _would_ manage.

"Anything else, sir?" he asked.

"Yes. About the Angosians. They shouldn't cause any problems, as long as they are being left alone. Their aggression is triggered by the feeling of being threatened. So behave around them."

"How many of them are aboard, sir?"

"Only three. Commander Roga Danar is their commanding officer, although nominally, they answer to Lt. Commander Eddington, our chief of security. They all have got field ranks while working for Starfleet. The second one is the black amazon you saw on the bridge. Her name's Maikhe Zayan. _Lieutenant_ Maikhe Zayan. She's rather friendly as Angosians go but has a mean left hook. The worst of all is Lt. Zhann Wagnor. Make a wide circle around him when you can… he's unpredictable."

"And Starfleet still accepted him as part of the team?"

"He's damn good at what he does," the XO shrugged, "and the others usually can keep him under control."

"Can't they give him drugs that would suppress his aggression?" Max was feeling decidedly uncomfortable by the thought of an unstable killing machine.

"Of course they could. But drugs would numb his reflexes, too, and we _need_ him at his best," the XO paused again. "Look, Ensign… this is an experimental cooperation. Captain Scott was t he only CO who accepted the Angosians as part of her crew. If we can make this joint effort work, other captains will follow, and our border patrols will have a fifty per cent better chance to survive."

"I can see the reason in that," Max said, "but what if thy go all lunatic on us?"

"They won't, if not provoked. Besides, they have help. Starfleet assigned to them a counselor, one specifically trained in aggression management."

"And that would work?" Max asked doubtfully. The XO sighed.

"I hope so, because we need the Angosians' expertise desperately. You see, Ensign Ravarra didn't lie to you about our ship's current abilities. At the moment, the _Renegade_ can barely hold warp 6.5. She took heavy damage at Wolf 359. Half of the crew quarters are still in shreds and pieces; we had to double up everyone but the captain in shared rooms, because engines, weapons and environmental systems had priority. The holodeck is off-line, the replicators can only provide about two dozen basic dishes, and we'll have to continue with the minor repairs during patrol duty. I won't lie to you, Ensign; it'll be a rough ride, at least for the first couple of months."

Max shrugged. "I'm used to close quarters, sir. Shared a room with three other people on the freighter. And when it comes to food, I'm all for quantity above quality."

"I know," the XO grinned. "I've just got Dr. Martin's report. You'll bunk with Ensign Sam Lavelle, the pilot of the Beta-shift, by the way. I understand that you graduated together?"

"A fact I'd happily forget," Max sighed. "Guy's not bad – unfortunately, he know that and never fails to rub it under the nose of others."

"Well, you'll be his boss," Lt. Cmdr. Albert pointed out, "_and_ you'll be on different duty shifts anyway, so there shouldn't be any problems."

"There won't be any, sir," Max said coldly; a self-absorbed idiot like Lavelle was no match for him, especially not with him being said idiot's boss. "May I ask, sir, whom do _you_ share quarters?"

"Does it matter, Ensign?"

"No, sir. Just curious."

"Well, it's not really any business of yours, but Josh said you were a nice guy, so I'll reveal the big secret. I'll share with Chief Brossmer. My wife." Seeing Max' surprise, the XO shrugged. "Yeah, this isn't exactly what I'd call an ideal family assignment, but after two decades we've finally got to serve on the same ship… we'll manage. Do you have any other questions, Ensign?"

"No, sir."

"Very well," the XO handed him a PADD. "Your duty schedule and quarters assignment, as well as some necessary information about the people you'll share bridge duty with. You need to know the basics about them; their strengths and weaknesses will surface in no time anyway. Dismissed."

* * *

Max left the ready room and crossed the bridge to the turbolift. Consulting the PADD, he found his quarters relatively easily – and noticed, to his annoyance, that Lavelle had spread his stuff all over the place already. Now, Max could be as much of a slob as the next guy (a fact that Rudy could have confirmed, were he there), but he preferred to have his own chaos around himself.

From their shared years at the Academy, he knew that subtlety would not work with Lavelle. Desperate measures were required. Max rummaged in his half-empty carry-on and found a spray dose of fluorescent paint – the same dose he had planned to use for decoration to his farewell party with Rudy. Since the party had never taken lace, due to their last minute break-up, the dose was still among his things. He couldn't just throw it away. Now it'd do good service.

Asking the computer to mark the geometric middle of the room for him, he sprayed a more or less straight and shockingly orange divider along that line. Then he kicked all of Lavelle's stuff over to the side with the already occupied bed… not too gently.

"I'm the senior officer here," he told the universe in general. "I don't have to put up with Lavelle's shit any longer."

Hearing it made him feel surprisingly good.

He consulted the PADD again, checking when Captain Scott would be back from the debriefing with Admiral Halden, asked the computer to alert him when the captain returned and threw himself onto the bed, still fully clothed, to get some shut-eye before Lavelle returned.

He briefly considered unpacking but rejected the idea almost immediately. He wouldn't have need for his civvies any time soon, as things looked. He doubted very much that he'd like the _Renegade_, but he had no other choice than get used to his new assignment.

TBC

* * *

**End notes:**

(1) Starbase 211 is mentioned in the 4th Season TNG episode "The Wounded". There's no canon proof that Admiral Haden would have been its commanding officer – I chose him because I needed a canon character, and because I liked the actor who played him.

(2) The particulars of the U.S.S. _Corvus_ are taken from _The Star Fleet Technical Manual_ by Franz Joseph.

(3) In my corner of the Trekkieverse, native Centaurian names contain four parts and are at least sixteen syllables long. I've created three different Centaurian species for my stories.

(4) See the 3rd Season TNG episode "The Hunted".


	5. Chapter 5: The Trill Candidate

**THE EQUINOX LOGS**

**by Soledad**

**LOG #1: IMPOSSIBLE ODDS**

**Disclaimer:** see in the Introduction.

**Rating:** PG, for this chapter

**Author's notes:** This particular chapter happens shortly before the 4th season TNG-episode "Reunion". Arjin is the same person as Jadzia Dax' trainee from the DS9 episode "Playing God", of course. Frankly, I found him quite annoying. But that wasn't the only reason to give him an appearance in this story. He'll play a more important role later.

**CHAPTER 5: THE TRILL CANDIDATE**

Personal log of Lt. Cmdr. Rudolph Ransom.

Stardate: 44227.3

Life aboard the _Aries_ has been not particularly exciting since we left Starbase 80 – we've done the usual basic scientific work: cartography missions, readings on radiation anomalies and other small tasks like those. It' been a welcome change for most of the crew, who needed some recovery time after Wolf 329 badly.

We even returned to some joint efforts with civilian organizations, which had to be stopped for the time of fighting and regrouping. I've just met the young Trill candidate who's come aboard for pilot training. He's a civilian by the name of Arjin – I haven't learned his family name yet. He's a nice enough guy… maybe a little too eager to please, but knowing the hard competition among Trill candidates to even get into the training programme (which he hasn't managed so far) that's understandable. Lt. Solis says he's got an instinctive talent for flying.

Trills are fascinating creatures. I hope I'll learn more about their physiology and customs with Arjin's help. Our database is not very forthcoming where Trills are considered.

On a more personal note, I've found a good colleague, a competent aide and maybe even a potential friend in my second, Lt. Vanderweg. We are on first name basis now, something I never had with my former colleagues, on any of my earlier assignments. But Greta is a delightful woman who could cheer up a rainy day, despite the fact that she misses her family greatly. She keeps telling me ridiculous stories about my Vulcan predecessor, Chu'lak – it seems they didn't get along all too well. Greta never fails to point out that I, too, am almost Vulcan in my mannerism. Still, I think that the constant interaction with her has helped me to open up to other people a little.

Lt. Nella Darren is a different matter entirely. She's a good scientist as far as I can tell (stellar cartography isn't exactly my field of expertise, but her references are outstanding), and an amazing piano player. But there is something about her that makes me uncomfortable. Greta says it's because she's as stiff-mannered as I am, but I think there's something more. I just don't know what. I wish Max were here; he has an almost uncanny sense for judging people's true character.

Dr. Luisa Kim, on the other hand, is another charming lady. She's a civilian scientist, one of the ill-fated geology team members from Velara III(1). I believe that after years, she still has nightmares about what happened there. She's quiet, withdrawn and rather beautiful, comes from an early Terran colony founded by Asian emigrants, back in the 22nd century. At first Greta tried to play matchmaker between the two of us, so I finally had to tell her about my sexual orientation before she managed to talk Dr. Kim into something that would never work. Why certain women always try to get their friends married is beyond me.

Nevertheless, Luisa, Greta and I have formed an easy friendship. We spend much of our off time together and have a lot of fun. I wonder where the tendency of surrounding myself with lovely women has come, all of a sudden. Can it bee that I seek out their company because they are safe? Because – unlike a certain male nurse at sickbay – they pose no temptation? As I've never been interested in female partners at all, I can't follow Max' example and 'only cheat on him with women'. He is important to me, more important than I'd ever think, but can I honestly expect from myself to be alone until we can get together again?

This is ridiculous. Max and I have practically broken up; there's no need for me to become chaste, now that we are on the opposite sides of the quadrant. Besides, I know Max doesn't expect it from me – he's made it clear enough that we have no obligations to each other. So, why do I feel vaguely guilty when I catch myself checking out the assets of Med. Tech. LeBonne? Because he doesn't seem adverse?

He's been sending me subtle signs of interest all the time. And I've never been the person grieving after a lost lover. And Jean-Pierre LeBonne is as handsome and exotic as only a man born from French and Betazoid parents can be. So, why am I still hesitating? As much as I miss Max – and I do – life goes on. Sooner or later, I'll have to give in and seek another partner, even if only temporarily.

But I'm not _that_ desperate yet. And a starship is a closed community. On a Starbase, one has enough anonymity to indulge in casual affairs. On a starship, one has to live with the consequences. So, for the time being, spending time with my charming lady friends is safer. I'm not alone, _and_ I'm not tempted to become unfaithful. Ransom out.

* * *

Ransom glanced at his wrist chrono – a relict that most likely no other officer of the Fleet wore anymore – and realized with a start that unless he got ready _really_ fast, he'll be late for his dinner appointment. Which would have been an unfortunate thing indeed, as this was the usual weekly dinner for the senior officers – and civilian guests – a t the captain's table.

According to Commander Flaherty this was a brand new tradition aboard the _Aries_, introduced by Captain Rixx, who wanted to know his officers better. The former captain, a solitary Vulcan, had always eaten alone, or in the company of former science officer Chu'lak, in his personal dining room.

Rixx, on the other hand, seemed a more sociable creature. Not only had he most of his family on board, he also interacted with the crew on a personal level. The weekly dinners were served in the captain's dining room, and civilian clothes were required – something that especially the female officers would greatly appreciate. Starfleet uniforms were practical, and even looked good on most people, but everyone welcomed the chance to show off a little.

Ransom didn't really care about clothing orders. Hurriedly, he threw on some civvies and raced to the turbolift, regardless of such irrelevant things of dignity. When it came to punctual appearance at the captain's table, dignity was overrated.

He reached the dining room just in time and sat down quietly next to the captain's junior wife, a young Bolian science officer named Mitana Haro. Rixx' co-husband, a petty officer by the name of Zim Brat, was a member of the _Aries_ crew as well, while the fourth member of their clan marriage, the senior wife, remained on Bolius and raised the children. If Ransom had understood the snatches of information given to him by various officers, the matriarch of the clan was already beyond her fertile phase, and Bolian females usually lost all sexual interest after that. Males, on the other hand, were sexually active for a lot longer, which was the reason for the clan marriages, as the junior wife (or wives) came at a much younger age. The older females started their career after the fertile phase and were highly respected in society. Rixx senior wife was a member of the local administration and didn't want to give up her work for being a mere family member on a starship.

Ransom found these differences between species and customs fascinating, and he'd found a kindred spirit in the newly assigned CMO of the _Aries_, Dr. Katherine Pulaski. Right now, the doctor was seated next to Moira O'Brien, talking in her usual, wry manner to Blake Argyle, the stocky, bearded chief engineer of the ship. On her other side the security chief, a big, muscular Zaldan named Rondon, glared onto his own plate as was his wont, still struggling to handle human-norm eating utensils with his large, webbed hands.

Zaldans descended from sea mammals and usually lived in a maritime environment. Ransom wondered sometimes, how they married to survive on starships at all. Whether they slept in the bath tube or whatnot. He knew Lt. Rondon had been a training officer of the Starfleet Academy training facility on Relva VII(2), but got drafted after Wolf 359m because of the severe lack of experienced officers all across the Fleet.

The heads of the various science departments were talking shop over the table, as usual, Lt. Darren dominating the conversation – as usual – while Greta Vanderweg and the Tiburonian scientist, T'Lor, made heroic efforts to show some interest. Neither of them was an astrophysicist, though, which made it a lot harder for them to endure Nella Darren's monologue. Louisa Kim didn't even attempt to listen. She could afford it, of course. She was a civilian, after all.

With other words, it was a perfectly normal Friday dinner at the captain's table. With the exception of one extremely nervous young Trill, wearing a strangely asymmetric, oversized dark tunic and an almost panicked look on his face. Ransom couldn't blame him. Being trapped between Ensign Rhiann O'Brien (Flaherty's daughter, a promising botanist) and Counselor Shyana Uhnari (a young, but talented and intimidatingly beautiful Hahliian) could have made any man panic. Especially since neither woman hid her intense interest for the soft-faced young Trill.

The entire situation was even more complicated by the fact – known by Ransom but obviously not by the young ladies – that Arjin was not interested in women. To be more accurate, he was not interested in pursuing any relationship at all. His only interest was to become the best candidate for the Joining – which, as he had explained to Ransom on a purely scientific level, was so much more than any romantic involvement could offer.

For Arjin's apparently naïve mind, it was so simple. When he became Joined, he'd merge completely, not with the symbiont alone, but also with all the memories and personality quirks of every former host. He'd become a new person entirely. And that new person would then make all of his important choices, bared on the vast experience of its former lives.

On a purely scientific level, this fascinated Ransom.

On the more personal level, it made him sick.

Such intimacy… Once Joined, never alone with one's own feelings and thoughts… Always invaded by strange memories…

It would kill him in a week.

Fates, he wasn't even able to allow _Max_ close enough to share his feelings openly, and Max had meant more to him than anyone else before.

He'd discussed the Trill problem extensively with Dr. Pulaski. The CMO of the _Aries_ was an intelligent, experienced woman – even though Ransom could not entirely understand her mistrust towards technology – who approached everything and everyone with a refreshing cynism and a healthy portion of dry humour. Ransom found her quite charming and understood perfectly well how all her ex-husbands remained friends with her. Their family reunions, featuring all those exes with their new partners, must have been quite… interesting events.

To Ransom's surprise, Pulaski had no hopes for Arjin to ever become Joined.

"He tries very hard," she commented with a certain amount of dismissive pity in her voice, "but he's just not host material. To handle a centuries-old symbiont and the memories of half a dozen former host, one needs… spunk. The boy is such a bottom it's not even funny. He'd break under the pressure in no time."

Ransom still remembered choking on his synthale at that comment.

"He's a… bottom?" he repeated. "In which way?"

"Well, Commander," the doctor gave him a wryly amused look, "I don't think I need to explain that to _you_, of all people. Even though I meant it figuratively. The boy has no spine. Or if he has one, it's made of rubber. Which might come handy on the bottom, of course," she added, musing over the logistics.

Being a rather laconic creature, Ransom rarely blushed. This had been one of these rare occasions – understandable, though. Hearing such rude words from someone who looked like a fine Southern lady, even in the 24th century, was quite shocking.

In that moment he finally understood how the doctor could get along with Lt. Rondon so excellently. Zaldans held politeness for a sign of dishonesty – Pulaski's bluntness was probably highly valued by the security chief. Maybe Lt. Rondo would advance to Husband #4 one day. In theory, Zaldans and humans were compatible, and since procreation was hardly an issue for the good doctor any longer…

Ransom shook his head and tried to focus on Dr. Luisa Kim, who was seated opposite him on the other side of the table… with little effect. As much as he liked Dr. Kim, geophysics was not exactly his field of expertise either, and he didn't understood half of what the dark-haired Asian beauty was saying.

Unfortunately enough, Dr. Kim noticed his lack of interest after a while.

"Am I boring you, Commander?" she asked, slightly insulted – and with right so. She was an intelligent and attractive woman, entitled to expect her dinner neighbour to pay attention. Especially if said dinner neighbour was a fellow scientist, whom she considered a friend.

"Not at all," Ransom hurried to answer, more than a little ashamed. "It's just… I was wondering if I should rescue poor Arjin from those very determined young ladies over there."

Dr. Kim followed his gaze and smiled. Being a mature woman in her mid-thirties, she found the predatory instincts of the young girls (which Counselor Uhnari and Ensign O'Brien certainly were, Compared with her) fairly amusing.

But she also felt _some_ pity for the clearly terrified young Trill.

"I believe you should," she said with twinkling eyes. "I'll continue this conversation with Greta Vanderweg. She might even enjoy it. Her husband is a geopaleontologist, after all."

Ashamed that he'd been found out, but relieved nevertheless, Ransom excused himself to launch the rescue action.

"Commander," Luisa Kim's voice stopped him, "You owe me one for that, you know. And I'm a woman who collects her debts."

Ransom smiled. Even though his interests went in other directions, he found Dr. Kim absolutely lovely – as long as she wasn't discussing the finer points of geophysics.

"What about dinner?" he asked. "Tomorrow, at 19.00?"

Luisa Kim nodded. "It's a date. Now go and free that boy from the clutches of the young furies."

Ransom laughed as he strolled around the table. The last part of the Captain's Dinner, as it had become to known, was always a casual thing. People moved away from their usual places, mingling and chatting merrily. He found Arjin and his two female pursuers sitting on a small sofa, under the large viewport. The young Trill was positively squirming under the dual assault of female charms by now, and the look he shot at Ransom was nothing short desperate.

Honestly, Ransom could understand the young ladies. By any measure, Arjin was definitely pretty, with his long limbs and soft, oval face. So exotic with those dark spots adorning his temples and the sides of his graceful neck. _I wonder if they are sensitive_, Ransom mused, _the database says the spots of Trills go all the way, down to the ankles._ Arjin wore his dark hair a bit long, it would have reached his collar, _had_ that ridiculously cut, asymmetric tunic a collar in the first place. Elegant, long-fingered hands and big, dark, soulful eyes completed the appealing picture.

Yes, the boy _was_ pretty. A little too pretty for Ransom's taste, and most likely rather inexperienced. No match for the determinate young ladies, and apparently unable to wind himself out of this situation, which – if his burning cheeks were any indication – he found thoroughly embarrassing.

"Ah, here you are, Arjin," Ransom said lightly, as if discovering the young man just in that moment. "I was looking for you. Have you forgotten that we have an appointment tonight?"

The utter relief on Arjin's soft face was almost comical. The young man was so surprised that he could barely produce a convincing reaction.

"We have?" he asked meekly. Ransom nodded.

"You've promised to help me with the correction of the xenobiology database. You know, the incomplete records about symbiont physiology…?"

"Oh, oh, yes, indeed," Arjin stuttered. "I apologize, Commander. It seems that I.. I forgot to check my schedule for… for tonight…"

"So, do we still have that appointment or should we postpone it?" Ransom couldn't resist to make him squirm a little. The boy should learn to stand up for himself. "If you'd prefer the company of the young ladies, I'd understand…"

"N-no, that's quite all right, Commander," Arjin all but jumped to his feet. "E-excuse us, Counselor… Ensign O'Brien… I… we really have to go. I'm sorry, Commander, I… I didn't intend to set you up."

The two young ladies seemed decidedly unhappy, but they both knew that counteracting a ranking officer wouldn't be a good ideal Still, the glares that they shot at the retreating backs of his two men could have killed an Algorian mammoth from a hundred steps.

* * *

Ransom led the young man into his office. It was a spacious room, divided into a living and a working area, the former equipped with a small coffee table, a low sofa and two armchairs, the latter (which he had mistaken for the whole office when it was first shown to him) with a computerized desk, viewscreens embedded in the walls and a replicator unit. In a corner, a large terrarium stood, housing a pair of extremely rare Corvan gilvos, kept here for scientific observation.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Arjin collapsed on the sofa, without waiting for an invitation.

"T-thank you for rescuing me, Commander," he said, literally sagging in relief. Ransom smiled.

"You are welcome," then, with a smirk, he asked. "Not interested in women, or did you have another problem?"

"I wouldn't say that," now, out of harm's way, Arjin seemed to calm down rather easily. He even stopped stuttering. "It's more like 'not interested in young, aggressive women'. The few affairs I've had so far were all with mature ladies… or men who were considerably older than I am," he added, a speculative look in those suddenly not-quite-so innocent, dark eyes.

Ransom shook his head with a tolerant smile. The attempt had been a little clumsy, but honest, and under different circumstances he might even have been tempted by Arjin's unspoken offer. The boy _was_ pretty, after all, and obviously more than willing.

And _that_ was exactly what killed his interest almost immediately. Experience told him that Arjin would be a week and submissive lover. He didn't want meek and submissive in his bed. He had never been into those sorts of affairs, not even before Max. As a general rule, he preferred his partners close his own age, who knew what they were getting themselves into. Max had been the youngest lover he'd had for a very long time. But Max was a strong and feisty person who knew exactly what he wanted and could protect his own interests quite effectively.

Quite frankly, Max had spoiled him in that matter thoroughly, and right now, he didn't really want anyone else. He knew, after a while he would get over Max and go on with his life, just as his young lover wanted him to do when severing their bond with surgical precision. It still hurt, but he'd come to realize that Max had been right. Again. Subspace relationships seldom worked out, and they surely would not between the two of them who couldn't even admit their feelings to themselves.

Yes, one day he would look back at his time with Max with melancholy and a slight heartache, but nothing more. There was no use wallowing in self-pity over 'what if's. But right now, he was not so far yet. And the last thing he needed was to become the doting lover of an insecure young man who didn't have the courage to make his own decisions.

Fates, he had even found _Max_ too young. Compared with Max, Arjin was little more than a baby: a soft and pretty little thing, but immature and clinging like a leech. Besides, there had been something vaguely whorish in the boy's offer that made Ransom uneasy.

"I think you are into power in the first place, Arjin," he said, searching for the right word to make his point without hurting the young man's feelings. "Older partners make you feel safer… more secure. But that is the false way, in the long run, even if it seems easier at the moment. You must learn to stand up for yourself, to make your own choices. You can't lean on others all your life."

To his relief, the young man didn't seem hurt or insulted.

"I won't need to do that any longer, once I get Joined," Arjin replied with a shrug. "From that point on, the symbiont's experiences and knowledge will guide me in all my decisions. Including finding my further way."

"And what if the Symbiosis Commission doesn't accept you?" Ransom asked seriously.

The young man dismissed the mere idea with an overly self-confident shrug.

"Oh, they _will_ take me. My father knows a few people in the Commission, and they promised that I'll be accepted. Unless I mess up my evaluation training with an older, joined Trill, of course, but that's not very likely."

Ransom had his doubts about the whole thing, but again, he was no Trill, so Arjin probably knew better how the procedure was usually handled. Still, the older man had the feeling that Arjin saw his own choices a little too optimistic. He'd met quite a few Trill scientists during his years in Starfleet, both joined and unjoined ones, and he always had the impression that among Trills, personal maturity was the first requirement to get any important assignments. He could imagine that it was tenfold the case when selecting a potential host.

Before he could make any comment, however, his doorbell rang, and – following his invitation – Captain Rixx entered his office.

That was a first. Rixx had never shown any scientific interests, and so far they had only socialized during the weekly dinners. Besides, it was way beyond Ransom's duty shift, so the captain must have asked the computer about his locations – which, as far as he knew, was a first, too.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," the tall, bony Bolian said after taking the offered seat.

"Nothing at all, Captain," Ransom answered. "We're just hiding after that risky little rescue action. You know the saying: 'Hell hath no fury…' "

"'Like a woman scorned'," Rixx nodded, one of those wry little half-smiles on his hollow face. "I'm a married man, Commander, and my senior wife has a… formidable personality. We all love her dearly, but the peace of our family life is definitely improved by the current arrangement."

"With her and the kids on Bolius and the other spouses here?" Ransom asked, just to be certain he understood it rightly. The captain nodded.

"We all need to find the living conditions that suit our peace of mind best," he said. "But I didn't come to discuss my family life with you, Commander."

"No, I didn't think so, sir," Ransom said. "What is this about, then?"

"Just a minute," Rixx turned to the young Trill. "I believe you are quite safe now, Arjin. If you'll excuse us…"

"Of… of course, Captain," with that, Arjin left, unsatisfied curiosity and reluctance clearly written in his face.

"Sounds serious," Ransom commented. Captain Rixx shook his head.

"Not really, it isn't. It's a purely scientific issue. I just didn't want that boy eavesdrop on our conversation. Nothing against him, but to me, he seems the ultimate opportunist. For a favour, he'd probably sell his soul."

"Not his soul alone," Ransom commented dryly. The Bolian raised a completely hairless eyebrow.

"Really? Well, I'm not surprised. Anyway, Commander, how would you feel about a little scientific mission on your own?"

Ransom shrugged. "Depends on the circumstances, Captain. As a rule, though, I like to work alone. What's up?"

"We've just been ordered to set course for the Gamma Arigulon system. Have you ever heard about it?" Captain Rixx asked. Ransom shook his head.

"Not really. Of course, I've seen the name on star charts and so, but I'm first and foremost a xenobiologist, and there are no indigenous lifeforms, save certain sorts of bacteria that live in the lower atmosphere of a gas giant, so I never bothered to study that part of space. Why are we going there?"

"To rendezvous with the USS _LaSalle_," Rixx said. "Apparently, they have discovered something unusual there – some anomalous radiation, if I understand correctly. Now, the _LaSalle_ is a Deneva-class scout ship, without a science crew, so we'll have to make routine scans or whatnot, until the _Enterprise_ arrives and takes over for us."

Ransom called up the star chart in question to check the coordinates – and frowned.

"Captain, this is dangerously close to the Klingon border. Will our presence not be interpreted as a provocation?"

"I hope not," Rixx said. "Gamma Arigulon is clearly on our side of the Klingon Neutral Zone, and therefore Federation territory."

"Such formalities have never hindered trigger-happy Klingon border guards to shoot at our ships, whenever they believed we were too close to their borders," Ransom reminded him. "Besides, they'd want to know why we are interested in that system… and, most likely realize that they are interested in it, too. That sort of thing has happened frequently in the past."

Rixx nodded. "I know. That's why we won't go in openly. The _Aries_ will be doing regular border patrol, while you go in by shuttle craft and take those scans."

"Captain, the _Aries_ isn't equipped for a confrontation, even if the Klingons would believe that a deep space research vessel would be sent to border patrol duty," Ransom pointed out. Unexpectedly, the Bolian grinned at him.

"Well, in that case I suggest that you do your work quickly and efficiently, Commander," he said.

TBC

**End notes:**

(1) See the 1st season TNG-episode "Home Soil".

(2) See the 1st season TNG-episode "Coming of Age".


	6. Chapter 6: Cat and Mouse

**Equinox logs**

**by Soledad**

**LOG #1: IMPOSSIBLE ODDS**

**Disclaimer:** see in the Introduction.

**Rating:** G, for this chapter

**Author's notes:** This particular chapter happens shortly before the 4th season TNG-episode "Reunion". The shuttlecraft _Bolyai_ was named after two great Hungarian mathematicians (father and son). Yeah, I know it's nepotism, so what?

Canonically, Ransom's adventure with the Klingon Bird-of-Prey happened 'at Epsilon 4' – wherever that might be – and they were hiding in some unspecified nebula. I've relocated the encounter to Gamma Arigulon, in order to tie it in with TNG-canon, particularly with the events in the episode "Reunion", to find a solid reason why the Klingons would chase them in the first place. I also replaced the nebula with an asteroid belt.

The Klingon phrases are taken from Marc Orcand's Klingon dictionary. A few lines of dialogue (the technobabble) are borrowed from the actual episode. Ship specifications are from "The Next Generation Technical Manual" and the Ext Astris Scientia website.

* * *

**CHAPTER 6: CAT-AND-MOUSE**

Personal log of Lt. Cmdr. Rudolph Ransom.

Stardate: 44231.7

We performed a rendezvous maneuver with the U.S.S. _LaSalle_ in the Gamma Arigulon system. The _LaSalle_, a moderate-sized _Deneva_-class scout ship, discovered some unusual radiation anomalies in the Arigulon systems, which is surprising, to say the least, as there have never been any anomalous readings reported. We have been ordered to make the first routine scans, as the _Enterprise_, originally foreseen for this mission, had been redirected in the last moment for some diplomatic reason.

I've never been to the Arigulon sector before. According to Lt. Darren from Stellar Cartography, there are eight independent, though interconnected systems here, and she is more than eager to take a closer look at them. So is Ensign Haro from the Astrophysics Lab. We're going to leave with the shuttlecraft _Bolyai_ within the hour.

I must admit that I'm not very enthusiastic about this particular mission. It brings us too close to the Klingon border for my taste. Even though the Klingons have supposedly been our allies since the signing of the Khitomer Accords, they are a warrior race, and it's hard to predict how they'll react to our presence. Maybe I'm getting paranoid at my old age, but the whole thing makes me uncomfortable.

The other factor is that I'm really _not_ looking forward to spend any time enclosed in a shuttlecraft with Lt. Darren. That woman has an attitude that makes my skin crawl. Hopefully, we'll go in and out quickly, so that we'll be able to return to our separate labs as soon as possible. Ransom out.

* * *

On board the IKS _Borta'S_, his huge, _Vor'cha_-class attack cruiser, K'mpec, the current leader of the Klingon High Council, was dying. There was no outward sign of his condition yet, thus the only ones who knew about it were himself, the half-Klingon Federation emissary K'Ehleyr… and his murderer.

The grisly old warrior – he'd been often compared to that savage and powerful _tera'ngan_ beast and considered it a compliment, even if a back-handed one – didn't mind dying itself. He'd had a long life, full of glorious battles, political intrigues, hot-blooded women and great songs. A good life. He'd lived longer than most Klingon warriors would expect – and he was still in full use of his legendary strength.

Well, he _would_ have been if not for the poison cruising in his veins. And _that_ irked him beyond measure. Dying in a glorious battle was an honourable thing, one that inspired songs in the following generation and kept one's name alive for centuries to come. There was no honour in a slow and painful death, though, caused by incurable poison that some spineless coward had slipped in his food secretly.

He had little doubt that one of his potential successors was behind the dishonourable deed. He just couldn't determine which one. Both Gowron and Duras were more politicians than warriors, although each of them could prove his skills with the _batt'leth_, if they had to. Granted, Duras had treachery in his blood, which made him the more promising suspect – and he had those ruthless and very efficient sisters of his who'd succeed where he himself would fail – but Gowron had a sneaky trait in his very nature that was more Romulan than Klingon.

K'mpec didn't trust either of them. They were power-hungry, much more than they were concerned about their honour, and such a leader – whichever would come out of the power struggle victoriously – did _not_ bode well for the Empire.

Personally, K'mpec would have preferred General Martok as his successor. Martok was an honourable man who carried the scars of glorious battles. And he wasn't a fool, either – not to mention his wife, the magnificent Dame Sirella, who held half Qo'noS in her clutches – and yet it was not enough. Martok's supporters were numerous, but they weren't influential enough… or wealthy enough.

K'mpec shook with distaste in his whole body when he thought of the Empire of honourable warriors being ruled by wealth… like a Ferengi casino. But he could not deny the shameful fact that money, rather than blood, flew freely between the great Houses of Qo'noS, choosing an unworthy leader for a folk fallen from its previous grace.

The dying old Chancellor knew he couldn't stop the decay of his beloved Empire. But at the very least he intended _not_ to allow his murderer to take over his seat. The dishonourable coward who denied him the chance to enter _Sto'Vo'Kor_ in the middle of battle, would never enjoy the results of his treachery. He, too, would die an honourless death.

To reach _that_ goal, though, K'mpec needed an ally. One outside the mutual bonds of Klingon society and yet one respected enough that both sides would accept him as the Arbiter of Succession.

"_HaSta y Ichí!_" [Show me the visual display!], he ordered the young tactical officer whose duties included scanning for any possible approaching objects.

The young warrior obeyed immediately.

"_na Dev qaS wanI'ramqu',_"[There's nothing happening here], he reported only moments later.

K'mpec shook his shaggy head.

"_bI lughbe!_"[You're wrong], he replied; then, turning to the helmsman, he added in that military jargon that was called Clipped Klingon by the scholars of the language. "_He chu ghoS!_ [Follow a new course]

"_yajchu!_" [Understood clearly], the helmsman replied in the same manner and obeyed.

K'mpec suppressed a sigh and leaned back in his seat heavily.

"_Duj tIvoqtaH!_" [Always trust your instincts!], he told the young warrior behind the tactical console.

He wished he'd had listened to his own advice in time. He'd become careless, and he would now pay the price for that. But not without having his revenge – even if it came _after_ his death.

* * *

The members of Ransom's little expedition were gathering in the shuttle bay. They were six of them altogether: Aside from Rudy himself – and the inevitable Lt. Darren, who already behaved as if she'd been the Science Officer – they had the captain's junior wife with them, Lt. Mitena Haro, who happened to be a nuclear scientist; Lt. T'Lor, a small, bat-eared Tiburonian scientist, and two pilots.

The senior pilot, Lt. Graeme Hawk, was a good-looking human from some obscure colony nobody had ever heard of, while his co-pilot, Ensign Emilita Mendez, usually served at ops. They were a well-oiled team, Hawk and Mendez, despite the fact that they didn't like each other very much… to put it mildly. Which was the reason why Ransom had chosen them for this mission. Such high level of professionalism could save their lives, should anything go wrong.

He only wished Lt. Darren would acquire some of that professionalism… through osmosis, perhaps? Granted, this was her particular field, and she was better at it than anyone else aboard the _Aries_, but Ransom still regretted not being able to leave her behind this time. Even considering the relatively large proportions of a Type 7 shuttlecraft – the _Bolyai_, with which they were supposed to travel, was eight point five metres long, after all – he wasn't entirely sure that he'd be able to resist the temptation of throttling Lt. Darren at such close quarters.

Fortunately, Type 7 shuttlecrafts were built for 6 passengers aside from the crew of two, so the passenger department wouldn't be too crowded. Still, Ransom would have preferred to have just anyone _but_ Nella Darren with him. The thought of her pontificating about astrophysics or music – or her own unparalleled excellence in both – could give him a migraine in advance.

"I'll take the co-pilot's seat after launch," he announced. "I haven't been – physically – in space for quite a while. I miss the sight."

The fact that Type 7 had a longer window band than most other shuttles, exceeding backwards across the side hatch, made his reasoning a bit far-fetched, but he didn't care. Rank _did_ have its privileges, and if he preferred to enjoy the attractive masculinity of Graeme Hawk – not to mention the man's calm, quiet nature – to suffering from Nella Darren's continued self-congratulations, he could damn well do so. He wasn't only _the_ Science Officer (and thus their boss, at least nominally), he was also in charge of this particular mission, so such details were his call.

As if guessing – and rightly – what was going on in his commanding officer's head, Hawk gave him a broad grin that temporarily roused Rudy's blood pressure. He knew – had known for some time – that if he'd been interested, Hawk wouldn't be adverse to honest, casual sex, no strings attached. Although the pilot had a thing running with Pierre LeBonne, a half-Betazoid male nurse, they led a fairly open relationship, and Hawk was known as one who liked new experiences.

So far, Rudy hadn't taken him on that unvoiced offer. Not that he hadn't been tempted – after all, both young men were exceptionally attractive – but he still wasn't detached enough from Max and the memories of their time together to start something new. Besides, no matter how open the relationship of the two might be, Rudy was an old-fashioned man. Someone else's partner was more or less a taboo in his books.

"Begin pre-flight check, Lieutenant," he said mildly, standing aside to allow Emilita Mendez to take her seat. The young woman gave him a distracted smile of thanks, her eyes already on the instruments.

A few minutes later the pre-flight check was completed, and Hawk called the bridge.

"Bridge, this is shuttlecraft _Bolyai_ ready to takeoff. Permission to depart, Captain, sir?"

"Permission granted," Rixx answered. "Good luck, _Bolyai_".

"Hangar deck depressurized," the deck officer on duty – accidentally Zim Brott, the captain's co-husband – told them. "Forcefield released. You're free to depart."

"Thank you, Mr. Brott," Ransom answered in Hawk's stead. "See you in sixteen hours. Take us off, Mr Hawk."

"Taking off, aye," Hawk touched a few controls and the _Bolyai_ took off in the elegant, weightless manner of a ballet dancer. "Hangar deck is cleared,. Sir. Heading one-six-two mark five-four-four. Shall I increase speed to Warp 2, Commander?"

"No," Ransom said, knowing that the shuttle could only keep that speed for thirty-six hours. "Warp 1 will be sufficient. We can never know how fast we might have to retreat; the Klingon border is close. Let's not overstress the vessel right at the beginning."

Hawk seemed a bit disappointed – what was it with pilots and racing, whether it was necessary or not? – but hid it well enough.

"Aye, sir," he replied crisply. "Warp 1 – and off we are."

He touched a panel and the stars around them were stretched to long, shiny strips at once as they left normal space.

* * *

Duras son of Ja'rod sat in the command chair on the bridge of his _K'tinga_-class battle cruiser, the IKS _Vorn_, like a spider in the middle of its web – or so a human onlooker, would he be allowed to be there, would have found. Had he known that, he'd have considered the metaphor as flattering. He was a strong warrior, but – unlike those of the old school – he preferred manipulating the events from the background to running headfirst into a fight.

Others might not find this… tendency to be matching the honourable _Way of the Warrior_, but Duras couldn't care less. Those old derelicts would soon become the minority, and once he'd been accepted as the new Chancellor, things would be different in the Empire. No more resources would be wasted for projects that had no other use than to keep up appearances. No more strong, well-trained warriors would be sent into battles that couldn't be won, in the name of some overrated, outdated code of honour that had no practical significance.

Duras wasn't interested in the archaic concept of honour. He was interested in _power_. Power to do what was good for the Empire. That would lead the Klingons out of their current barbarian existence and wasteful practices. Power to reshape the Empire according to his vision; to make it better, stronger, more powerful. To make other races quiver before its strength, achieving the best bargaining position, based on respect and fear.

So far, his plans had gone well. Admittedly, he'd had a little help, both in orchestrating and executing them. It was almost a shame that Lursa was his sister and thus he couldn't marry her. She was the most devious, ruthless and sharp-minded woman he'd ever seen. Compared with her, B'Etor – although smart and sly enough on her own – seemed almost plain and naïve. But again, her true powers lay in seduction, not in conspiracy.

Yes, Duras' plans were going on nicely. Once that stupid old _targ_ K'mpec was dead, power would be his. Then he'd have to look out for a suitable wife. Vekma, no matter how pleasantly savage in bed, was a simple soldier – not the kind of woman the Chancellor would want on his side all the time. He'd keep her on his ship, for she was highly inspiring company . not to mention the fact that she'd already given him a son – but definitely not wife material.

Thinking of his young son made Duras smile with paternal pride. He'd accepted Toral as his son and took the boy from his mother right after he'd been vaned, giving him to Lursa and B'Etor to raise. They'd done a good job with the boy; an excellent job., In a few years, Toral would be able to serve his father as a bodyguard.

He'd never become Duras' heir, of course. He was base-born, and by a woman of no significance. But he could become a great warrior – and a useful pawn – if he worked very hard; and Lursa would see to _that_. As for the boy's birth mother… as long as she accepted her status, she would be welcome to share Duras' bed. Should she start causing problems, though… well, Lursa could see to _that_, too.

She was nothing if not efficient, one had to give her that. Whether concealing evidence concerning their father's dealings with the Romulans at the time of the Khitomer massacre – which, alas, had failed to completely rid them of the House of Mogh – or fabricating fake evidence implicating that idiot Mogh as the guilty party, whether raising Duras' son or putting the boy's mother to her proper place, Lursa was invaluable for Duras' plans.

The current one of those plans would be realized, soon. Right after K'mpec's inevitable death, when Gowron would come to the old fool's wake. Lursa had already dispatched the assassin – an impressionable young fool who'd do just about everything for B'Etor after a night of passion – to Gowron's ship, the _Buruk_, with the bomb implanted in his arm. Concealed as a relief guard, no one would suspect anything. And with Gowron out of his way, there would be no more candidates to challenge Duras' right of succession.

It was a simple and elegant solution, with a minimum of bloodshed, if not exactly the true Klingon way to handle things. But again, in Duras' opinion, the true Klingon way was ridiculously overrated and highly impractical.

He was most impolitely torn from his pleasant thoughts by the surprised voice of his tactical officer – a young warrior who hadn't learned yet _not_ to speak when he hadn't been asked a question.

"_nughaStaH nuq…?_ [What is coming toward us?]" murmured the little fool, staring at his screen.

Duras gave him a quelling look, making a mental note to see to the boy's proper… _education_, right after the current operation was completed.

"_HIqaghQo' qaja' pu'!_ [I told you _not_ to interrupt me!]" he reminded the youngling warningly.

The young warrior ducked, futilely trying to hide his terror. He was too intimidated to even apologize. Duras snorted. He liked his underlings respectful, not completely spineless. He might have to get rid of this one eventually.

"_nuq Dalegh?_ [What do you see?]" he asked with forced patience. "_ylHothl_ [Put it on screen]".

"_yajchu'_ [Understood clearly]," the youngling finally found his voice to give the proper answer.

He was also working furiously on his console, and moments later, on the visual display appeared the gleaming white form of a Federation shuttlecraft. One of the new, streamlined, Warp-capable types, if Duras wasn't mistaken - and he knew he wasn't. He was _always_ up-to-date where news about the Federation were concerned.

"_DIvI Duj_ [Federation vessel]," he murmured with interest. Now _that_ was suspicious, to say the least. What was Starfleet doing here? And at this time, of all possible times? It was just too… convenient to be a mere coincidence.

Duras didn't trust coincidences, unless they were carefully planned and orchestrated by himself and his older sister.

The young tactical officer was still glaring at his screen nervously.

"_jIyajbe'_ [I don't understand]," he murmured.

"_bIyath'e' yImev!_ [Shut up!]" Duras snapped impatiently. "_wI cha!_ [Tactical display!]" he added, switching to Clipped Klingon.

The switch to command mode finally silenced the whimpering little idiot. He switched the monitor to tactical display and extrapolated the Federation vessel's course without being ordered to do so. Good. Perhaps there was still hope for him.

The Starfleet shuttlecraft was clearly doing some survey on the primary star of the Gamma Arigulon system. In itself, that would have been harmless enough; these Starfleet types were always researching something. Always trying to figure out the great secrets of the Universe, instead of trying to conquer is; but that was their loss.

However, Duras knew that these little vessels had only short-range Warp capability. Which meant that there had to be a Starfleet starship somewhere in close vicinity. A big starship with a powerful sensor array. Powerful enough to pick up his communications with the would-be assassin aboard the _Buruk_. And Duras needed to be informed. He needed to know what Gowron was plotting. He could not cut off communication with his spy. Being kept up-to-date about each of Gowron's steps was of vital importance right now.

Under other circumstances he'd have kept up the cloak and avoided the little vessel. Unfortunately (for them), he couldn't afford that luxury right now.

"_Do'Ha'_ [It's unfortunate]," he murmured; then, turning to the tactical officer, he switched to command mode again. "_baH!_ [Fire (torpedoes)]," he ordered with regret.

He really hated waste.

* * *

The crew of the _Bolyai_ was doing regular sensor sweeps and analyzing the data. Astrophysics not being his special field, Ransom had offered to make log entries – at least that way he could prevent Lt. Darren from composing complicated scientific lectures every time. The rest of the crew kept giving him grateful looks. On field trips one learned quickly how to appreciate small blessings.

Besides. playing the record officer allowed him to sit in the co-pilot's seat, enjoy the spectacular view – and avoid Lt. Darren. With a smug little smile, he pushed the record buttons and achieved what he called his 'official tone", to make the first entry.

"Science Officer's Log: Stardate 44239.9

Lt. Cmdr. Rudolph Ransom recording.

We are investigating radiation anomalies reported in the Gamma Arigulon system by the USS _LaSalle_. Preliminary readings have been inconclusive, so far," he paused the record and looked at Mitena Haro. "Ensign?"

The Bolian shook her head that was blue and completely smooth – like a robin's egg, Ransom thought involuntarily – save from the sharp bifurcated ridge running down the exact middle of her otherwise pretty face. As if someone had tried to cleave her skull in tow. It was a bizarre thought, yet the first one that occurred to Ransom every time he saw a Bolian even after many years of familiarity with their species.

"No change, Commander," she replied in that pleasant, high-pitched voice of hers. "I can't detect any abnormalities in the star's radiant energy… and yet there's no other recognizable source from which the radiation could originate."

Ransom nodded. He wasn't very good at astrophysics, but like all Bolian scientists he'd met so far, Mitena Haro seemed to prefer a clear and simple nomenclature that even non-scientists would understand. Ransom appreciated the effort. He held academics who tried to appear superior through using scientific slang incomprehensible for everyone else in the deepest possible contempt.

"Perhaps a closer look can help," he suggested standing to vacate the co-pilot's chair for her; it was her field, after all, not his. "Prepare a Class One probe, ensign.

Haro slid into the chair gleefully and began to manipulate the controls with practiced ease. She might be a newbie, but she obviously was a highly skilled newbie.

"Probe ready to launch, sir," she reported less than a minute later. From a freshly graduated ensign it was a neat performance.

"Initiate launch sequence," Ransom ordered.

He didn't really expect much from the probe – the sensors of the shuttlecraft were more than adequate to perform such simple survey tasks – but he wanted to make sure they'd tried everything in their power to solve the mystery. Even if it was just a small mystery. Of course, the complete unravelling of the riddle would have to wait for a science vessel, but…

"Commander!" Lt. Hawk interrupted his thoughts, staring at his own console in mild shock. "Klingon attack cruiser decloaking, bearing zero-one-zero mark three-two-seven!"

"Belay that order, Ensign!" Ransom said sharply, and Haro snatched a blue hand back from the console as if it had burned her fingers. "Mr. Hawk, raise shields. Evasive maneuvers at your discretion! Everyone else – brace for impact!"

Only Hawk's excellent reflexes saved them from immediately annihilation. The shields were already raised and the _Bolyai _halfway out of the line of fire when the disruptors hit the small vessel. It rocked under them like a seaship on the stormy ocean.

"Direct hits on the starboard nacelle," Ensign Mendez reported calmly, reclaiming her seat from Haro. "Shields are holding at seventy per cent… but not much longer. Shall I fire back, sir?"

"No," Ransom said after a moment of consideration. "Our phasers won't even make a dent in the shields of a _K'tinga_-class attack cruiser; we'd just waste precious energy."

"So, what are we going to do then?" Mendez asked. "A few more hits from that Leviathan out there and we're history."

"Reroute all available power to the shields," Ransom ordered, "and program a course to the asteroid belt of the system where it's at its densest… a course with a great many twists and curves in it, so that they'd have to readjust their targeting scanners all the time. It won't help much, but we need to use every trick that's up in our sleeves."

"Aye, sir," Mendez was working frantically, while Hawk was flying the shuttle manually, putting in sharp turns and twists and rolls that the initial dampeners were having a hard time to compensate.

Another disrupter shot missed them barely a few metres before the bug when Mendez reported with visible relief.

"Course laid in, sir. Shields are back at a hundred per cent; but I had to take the phasers offline for that."

"Never mind," Ransom answered. "They won't do us any good against that monster. Our goal is now to hide away in the asteroid belt, avoid getting his all too badly… and send out a distress call to the _Aries_, so that she could come and pick us up."

"I've already tried that, sir," Hawk reported glumly. "The Klingons are jamming our comm signal."

Ransom nodded. "Of course they are. For some reason only they know, they don't want us to be there. They wouldn't allow us to call in reinforcements. Whatever Starfleet propaganda might have said about them a century ago, Klingons are _not_ fools."

"So, what are you planning to do?" Lt. Darren asked. "We can't hide in that asteroid belt fort he rest of our lives!"

The pitch of her voice was enough to give Ransom a headache. The thought that it might be the last thing he was going to hear in his life made him wish to drop his rescue plan and surrender to the Klingons.

"We don't have to," he replied with as much patience as he could manage to come up with. "Firstly, whatever the Klingons may be up to, they won't have too much time for hunting, I assume. If we can avoid getting killed long enough, they might just give up and leave after a while."

"And if they don't?" Haro asked quietly. She tried to hide it, but Ransom could see that she was badly scared. He didn't blame her. Facing an obviously hostile Klingon battle cruiser wasn't an easy thing, even for an experienced officer, and she was still so young…

"That's where Plan B comes into the play," he replied; then he looked at the bat-eared Tiburonian scientist who'd listened to them calmly and without saying a word the whole time, "Lieutenant T'Lor, do you think you could install a communications buoy into a Class One probe, programmed to send out an automated distress signal?"

T'Lor nodded. "No problem, sir. You want to send out the buoy beyond the jamming field, dot you?"

"Yes," Ransom said. "Do you think it's doable?"

T'Lor nodded again. Like all Tiburonians, he was very good at communications, and like all scientists, he loved difficult tasks.

"It will require some careful programming, as we won't be able to control the probe remotely, due to the jamming field," he answered, "but I enjoy a good challenge. If Ensign Haro could help me…"

Ransom knew that a technical wizard like the Tiburonian didn't need any help, especially not from an inexperienced ensign whose field wasn't even communications. T'Lor had only asked for her assistance so that she'd be busy tinkering instead of busily panicking. Ransom was grateful for it.

"Of course, she could," he said. "Well, people, we've got a rescue plan. Let's try to survive."

* * *

"Still no reports from the _Bolyai_?" Captain Rixx asked, leaving his ready room and stepping out onto the bridge of the _Aries_.

Chief Engineer Argyle, who was having the bridge during Gamma Shift, shook his head, concern clearly written in his bearded face.

"No, sir. I had Ensign Tsu," he nodded towards the petite Asian female at Ops, "establish a search pattern, but no luck so far."

"Strange," Rixx said. "There was nothing that could interfere with sensor sweeps or communication signals."

"Unless they are deliberately jammed by someone," Argyle replied darkly. "Did Starfleet mention any Klingon ships in this sector?"

Rixx, who was always up-to-date with official communiqués from Starfleet, shook his head thoughtfully.

"None. But that doesn't mean there aren't any cloaked ships _now_," he said. "The Klingons might be our allies, but their internal struggles make them rather… volatile allies." He thought about the problem some more, then he apparently came to a decision. "Very well. They're overdue, and there hasn't been any communication since their first report back. We're going after them. They might be in trouble. Mr. Argyle, you're relieved. I'll take over for you. Check shield status for me, just in case."

"Aye, Captain," Argyle hurried over to the engineering station and started the check on the shields. And on the phaser arrays. And on the photon torpedo launchers. Just in case. Blake Argyle was a very thorough man.

Rixx smiled for a moment – he liked people who were thorough at work – then he turned to Ensign Lee Ann Tsu.

"Ensign, go to Yellow Alert. Wake Commander Flaherty and the rest of the senior staff and call them to the bridge. I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Aye, sir," Lee Ann was already at it.

Rixx turned to Lt. Enrique Solis, currently occupying the helm.

"Lieutenant, retrace the course of the _Bolyai_. We're going to follow them step to step. Go to Warp six, and when we reach the Gamma Arigulon system, continue at full impulse."

"Course laid in, Captain," Solis reported forty-one seconds later. "Ready to go to Warp at your mark."

"Very well," Captain Rixx said, his voice every bit as hollow as his cheeks right now. "Engage."

* * *

They'd been playing this deadly cat-and-mouse game with the Klingons for what seemed like forever, although rationally Ransom knew it couldn't have been longer than a few hours: hiding behind asteroids, with rich enough mineral deposits that it would conceal the mass of the shuttlecraft from the Klingons' sensors, dodging the random shots that were meant to drive them out of hiding… and hoping that either the Klingons would give up or help would arrive, as they had no hope to escape from this death trap on their own.

They had launched the Class One probe more than an hour ago. T'Lor had carefully programmed a course that would take it in the direction where the _Aries_ was waiting; and he'd set the timer of the communications buoy so that it wouldn't start sending out the distress signal until it was beyond the range of the Klingons' short-range sensors. There was still a fifty per cent chance that the Klingons would detect the probe anyway and destroy it before it could have sent out the distress call, of course. With both sensors and communications jammed, there was no way to know for certain.

As soon as the probe was on its way, Ransom ordered Hawk to move the _Bolyai_ to another hiding place, closer to their original incoming route.

"If they find the probe, they'd be able tot rack its path back," he said. "They wouldn't need sensors to find us if we were still sitting here. Besides, should the _Aries_ come to look for us, they'd follow our original course; that's the most logical approach."

"Do you really think they'll come, sir?" Mendez asked doubtfully.

Ransom shrugged. "We're long overdue; and we haven't managed to report in for a second time. Captain Rixx isn't the kind of man who'd leave his crew behind."

"He won't," Ensign Haro said quietly. "Especially not after the loss of the _Thomas Paine_. His crew is like a second family for him."

She didn't need to say any more. The strong sense of duty towards their families was as characteristic for Bolians as was their talkative nature; a nature that neither Rixx nor Haro seemed to share. Their third spouse, however, made up for both of them, if rumours originating in Engineering could be trusted.

Bolians was a fascinating species, Ransom thought, watching absent-mindedly the young scientist collecting and analyzing the date – or more the lack thereof about the anomalous radiation for a second buoy they were planning to set out on the outskirts of the Gamma Arigulon system, just in case they wouldn't make it. At least the data – and the record about the unprovoked Klingon attack – would be found… eventually.

Bolians were fascinating for an exobiologist, and not just because of their looks. Current research tended towards the theory that once they'd been an avian species, albeit one incapable of flying, like Terran emus. Somewhere along the line of their evolution, they had lost their feathers (if, indeed, they'd ever had any), and their bodies were now completely smooth.

They didn't lay eggs like some of the reptiloid species – like the Denebians, for example – but Bolian babies were born covered with a strong, translucent membrane, from which they needed to be freed right after birth. They were also secondary hermaphrodites, which was the strangest way of procreation Ransom had ever heard of in a humanoid species. Under normal circumstances, they were either male or female. But when in extreme situations – like in the case of two of the same primary gender trapped somewhere during the mating cycle – their secondary nature could emerge to accommodate the urge to procreate. To put it bluntly, dormant secondary genitalia became active, in order to sire offspring.

Ransom found this as endlessly fascinating as the fact that by Benzites it was the male who carried the offspring to term… or the four different genders of Andorians, all four of which were required to create offspring.- The diversity of Federation worlds and species was a never-ending source of wonder for him. He hoped he'd get the chance to learn more about Bolians while serving aboard the _Aries_. He'd have liked to know whether their primary gender was already determined by birth or only emerged during their equivalent of puberty… or if it would change semi-permanently during their lives.

Another disruptor shot sizzled mere metres before their bug, and Ransom silently berated himself. This was _not_ the time to be distracted by scientific curiosity. Unfortunately, there was nothing useful he could do to improve their situation. What little could be done was done by the more technically savvy members of the away team. Beyond that, all they could do was to wait – and to hope that the _Aries_ would get to them before the Klingons.

* * *

"Captain," Tactical Officer Wah Chang, a middle-aged Chinese man, looked up from his station that also dubbed as the _Aries'_ communications console. "I'm picking up a distress call from the _Bolyai_."

Captain Rixx leaned forward in his chair. "On screen," he ordered.

Lieutenant Chang tried to obey, but all they could see on the main viewer was the blackness of space and the scattered asteroids and stellar rubbish of the Gamma Arigulon system's asteroid belt.

"That's odd," Lt. Vanderweg, currently occupying the single science station of the bridge, commented quietly.

Rixx nodded. Something was definitely wrong. They could clearly receive the automated distress signal of the _Bolyai_, could even localize its source, but the shuttlecraft was nowhere to see.

"Magnify, Mr. Chang," he said.

The tactical officer shook his head while consulting his readings.

"We _are_ at maximum magnification already," he said. "The signal seems to be coming from a Class One probe."

Rixx furled his hairless brow. "Why would they launch a probe? The anomalous radiation was not supposed to interfere with comm signals."

"But a Klingon jamming signal would," Chang replied grimly. "Just because Starfleet hasn't heard anything about Klingon activities in this sector, it doesn't mean there aren't any. And whatever Klingons want to do secretly, it couldn't be any good."

"True enough," Rixx said. "Search for Klingon ships in the area where the _Bolyai_ is supposed to be."

Chang tried to do so but without any results.

"Something is interfering with our sensors, Captain," he reported with a frown. "There _must_ be a jamming signal of some sort at work. The source of the distress call is just barely outside of its reach.

The expression on Captain Rixx' face hardened.

"All right," he said. "Lieutenant Solis, move in closer. We'll search for our away team visually, if we have to."

"Shall I change course to follow the distress call?" the helmsman asked.

Rixx shook his head. "No. If they were forced to launch a probe to get that distress call out, they won't be anywhere near to it for any pursuers to find them. Commander Ransom is an intelligent man; he won't make such a basic mistake. Let's follow the _Bolyai_'s original course and see what we'll find there."

"Aye, sir," Solis replied crisply and resumed course.

For a tense hour or so, the bridge of the _Aries_ was eerily quiet. Tactical Officer Chang and Jim Shimoda, the engineer on duty, were working furiously to countermeasure whatever was jamming their sensors, while Commander Flaherty mentally rehearsed the best possible words he'd challenge the Klingons with. The right phrasing was an important factor when one had to deal with Klingons.

Finally Chang looked up from his console.

"Captain, we've managed to get in some readings," he said. "Visuals are still a bit blurred, but there's definitely a Klingon ship out there. If I can trust my instruments, it's a _K'tinga_-class attack cruiser. They're not sending any ID codes, though."

"On screen!" Rixx ordered, his eyes narrowing.

The view of the main screen was understandably a little corny, as the sensors had still a hard time to work through the jamming field. But the ship they showed was unmistakably that of a typical Klingon Bird-of-Prey, with its long neck, flat head-like primary section and two curved wings, on the tips of which the disruptor cannons were situated. Said disruptor cannons were firing randomly into the system's asteroid belt, which could only mean one thing…

"The _Bolyai_ is hiding in that asteroid belt," Rixx murmured, mentally congratulating his Science Officer for the excellent move. "Mr. Chang, call the Klingon ship."

"They're not answering, sir," Wah Chang reported a moment later.

"Are they receiving our call?"

"According to my readings they are, Captain. They just don't seem to be in the mood to talk."

"It doesn't matter; it's enough if they're listening," Rixx replied. "Put us through."

"You can speak, sir."

"Very well," Rixx straightened in his chair, his eyes cold and unfriendly. "Commander Flaherty, if you'd do the honours…"

Flaherty stepped into the focus of the comm system and stared at the main screen as if he could see his invisible counterpart aboard the Klingon ship.

"Unidentified Klingon vessel, this is Commander Flaherty from the Federation Starship _Aries_," he spoke in the military vernacular known as Clipped Klingon that was used in battle situations only. "You'll cease your unprovoked attack against our survey craft immediately, or we shall open fire on your ship. You've got one standard minute to stand down. _Aries_ out."

He signalled Chang to cut the connection. One did not argue with a Klingon warrior after having stated one's demands. They all waited in tense silence for the Klingons' answer. Chief Engineer Argyle re-checked shield and phaser status.

"Captain," Chang said, just before the minute was over, "they've ceased fire hand have activated the cloak."

"Good," Rixx said. "As long as they are cloaked, they can't fire. Keep the shields up, Mr. Primmin, just in case," he added, glancing at the stocky human security officer on duty.

Lt. George Primmin nodded. "Shields at one hundred per cent, Captain. Shall I search for the _Bolyai_?

The captain shook his head. "They could be anywhere in that asteroid belt – without directions, we could spend our lives looking for them. Let's wait until the Klingons disengage their jamming signal."

"Assuming they _have_ turned tail and run," Chang said, clearly worried. "We have no way to know if they're still sitting around, cloaked and waiting for a chance to take us out."

"I don't think so," Rixx said thoughtfully. "Their presence, the unprovoked attack on the _Bolyai_, can only mean some secret operation they don't want to become public knowledge. Getting rid of a handful of witnesses is one thing; it could go almost unnoticed, presumably an unfortunate accident. But attacking a Starfleet vessel is something else entirely; something they couldn't keep covered easily. Starfleet would investigate, and as this is neutral territory, the Klingons couldn't do a thing to prevent it. No; I believe they'll get out of here as speedily as they can, so that we wouldn't be able to identify them. Speaking of which, Mr. Shimoda, were you able to read their energy signature?"

The somewhat chubby Japanese engineer nodded. "Aye, Captain, we got in a clear reading of _that_. It's not as good as an ID code… but good enough. Should we encounter them again, we'll be able to identify them."

"That's good," Rixx said. "I have the bad feeling that this is something more than a little private piracy. According to Starfleet Intelligence, things aren't going too well in the Klingon Empire right now. An embittered power struggle between several respected Houses has been going on for years, it seems. We might have stumbled into something here without being forewarned."

"In that case," Flaherty said, his eyes beady from too little sleep, "the prudent thing would be to get the hell out of here as long as we still can."

"We will," the captain replied calmly. "As soon as we've got our people back. And please, Commander, see that the energy signature Mr. Shimoda has managed to get in is distributed to all Starfleet vessels operating in close proximity… especially the _Enterprise_, as she's supposed to take over the survey eventually."

"Aye, sir," Flaherty made a note in his PADD for further use.

"Captain," Wah Chang looked up from his console, clearly relieved. "The jamming field is weakening considerably. Perhaps the Klingons _are_ retreating, after all."

"Well, that's a relief," Rixx said. "Call the _Bolyai_, Mr. Chang. I'm sure they'll be glad to hear that we've come to pick them up."

* * *

Later on that same evening, Rudy Ransom was having dinner with Dr. Pulaski, Lt. Vanderweg and Dr. Louisa Kim, as he still owed the latter one for letting him off the hook right before the away mission. The mess hall of the _Aries,_ while in no way comparable to the _Enterprise_'s Ten Forward bar, was a nice and friendly place. The tables were set far enough from each other for people to be able to have a conversation without the need to lower their voices, and the replicators were programmed with a wide variety of food and beverages – except real alcohol, of course. But since no one of this particular dinner party would really wish to get drunk, that wasn't much of a problem.

"I wonder if the captain has officially complained by the Klingons about the incident," Ransom said, eyeing his pasta with cheese sauce approvingly. He loved Italian cuisine, and the replicator had some excellent recepies programmed into it. "We're supposed to be their _allies_, for Pete's sake… although with allies like them, who needs enemies?"

Kate Pulaski, unusually well-informed even as notoriously gossipy CMO's go – it was said she had friends in diplomatic circles – shrugged.

"I doubt the Klingons could be bothered with such small skirmishes right now," she said. "I've heard that the old Chancellor, K'mpec, is dying, and the Rite of Succession is to take place, soon."

Greta Vanderweg grinned. "I can't imagine where you take all that gossip, Kate," she said. "And you're always _right_, too. It's… intimidating, in a way."

Pulaski shrugged again. "Actually, I know this from Special Emissary K'Ehleyr herself. We became fast friends when she visited the _Enterprise_ while I was still serving there. According to her, K'mpec wanted Captain Picard to be the Arbiter of Succession; that's why the _Enterprise_ was redirected from the survey mission at Gamma Arigulon."

"Are you supposed to talk about this publicly?" Ransom asked with slight concern. The last thing he needed was a dressing-down from the captain for discussing… _sensitive_ topics in the mess hall.

"I'm only telling _you_," Pulaski replied. "Besides, it will become public knowledge within days. K'mpec is in a really bad shape. He can't even leave his ship anymore."

"So you assume that the ship that attacked us was somehow involved?" Ransom asked. Considering the events from that angle, it actually made sense.

Pulaski nodded. "Probably one of the candidates… or one of their agents, plotting something to get rid of the concurrence. Assassination is a time-honoured Klingon method to dispose of one's enemies. Witnesses, even unintended ones are not wanted… and considered collateral damage."

Ransom looked at her, impressed. "You are very knowledgeable where the Klingon ways are concerned, Doctor."

Pulaski laughed. "I was married to one… for a very short time. The cultural differences were just too great, especially where medical ethics are concerned. But we've parted ways rather amiably and still have sporadic contact. He works for the Diplomatic Corps; it seems that being exposed to human lifestyle has moved his career forward, after all."

The other women laughed.

"I admire your ability to keep up good contacts with all your ex-husbands," Greta Vanderweg said. "I mean, I don't intend to leave Giaronas any time soon, but should it ever happen, I hope we'll go on our separate ways half as friendly as you do with your three exes."

"Four," Pulaski corrected. "The secret is to break up _before_ we begin to hate each other, for whatever reason that might happen. Fortunately, temporary marriage contracts as used in the Federation make it easy to end a marriage that's no longer working – you simply don't renew them once they have run out."

"I still think it has been made too easy," Greta said thoughtfully. "Some people don't even have to _try_ to make their marriage work; they can just sit it out until it officially ends."

"I see no sense in trying to cling to someone who's obviously _not_ happy with me," Pulaski replied with a shrug. "I'm faithful and loyal as long as a relationship works, but beyond that… I'm too busy with my work to fight for a man who wants to leave."

"I couldn't really comment on this," Louisa Kim said. "Personally, I'm not very good at relationships. Perhaps because I usually work at remote outposts, beyond reach for most… normal citizens."

They laughed again, then Louisa looked at Rudy. "How about you, Dr. Ransom?"

She couldn't have known, of course, but her innocent question cut unexpectedly deep. Rudy had always known that wedded bliss – the kind enjoyed by Blake Argyle and Jim Shimoda, faithfully married for six years by now – wasn't his path to tread. But the less than amiable break-up with Max still hurt, especially as he'd realized the part his own unwillingness to bound himself had played in it.

"I couldn't tell," he replied slowly. "No one has ever wanted me for the long run."

_That_ effectively killed the conversation, and soon thereafter, he excused himself and left, leaving the three women to their fun.

* * *

It was still relatively easy when he retired to his quarters, as the ship's artificial day was concerned. As they were at the beginning of their mission, there wasn't really much work to do – a fact which he regretted. Working hard had always helped him to free himself from his melancholy moods… but the reports he needed to finish were nowhere near demanding enough for his intellect to forget about his personal problems for a while.

Still, it was work, and it needed to be done. With a weary sigh, he changed into a dressing gown and sat down to his desk to deal with the reports.

He'd just finished his official log entry about the thwarted away mission – there was preciously little to say, with the readings still inconclusive, and he'd be damned if he included Nella Darren's hair-raising theory of the radiation's exotic origins into the science log – when the computer alerted him to an incoming subspace message.

At first he thought it would be Max. Granted, they had made no promises, but he still hoped his lover – his _ex-lover_, he reminded himself resignedly – would contact him eventually. But it wasn't Max. It was Michael Sullivan, an old childhood friend, currently in charge of Minos Kova's planetary defence systems. Although Michael had been fifteen years his senior, they'd been good friends while Rudy had still lived on Minos Kova, and they'd kept in touch during all those years.

"Hello Rudy," he said, his tired eyes belying his cheerful tone.. "I thought I'd call you as long as it's still possible."

Rudy felt his throat tighten. "Are things so bad on the Cardassian border?" he asked.

"There are no changes," Sullivan replied tiredly. "They're glaring at us from the other side of the border all the time. It's… unsettling, to tell the truth. We're reasonably well-armed over here, but should they decide to wipe us out, our planetary defences would be no match for the Cardassian war machine, and you know that as well as I do."

"Are there any signs that they may make their move in the near future?" Rudy asked.

Sullivan shook his head. "No; but they're like lizards. They can sit completely unmoving for a very long time, and then lash out, lightning-fast, when we least expect it." He sighed. "Anyway, there is no news so far. I just wanted to see you, in case…"

He trailed off, but Rudy knew what he meant. In case the Cardassians decided to overrun Minos Kova without warning without any official declaration of war. As was their wont. As they'd done the last time.

All of a sudden, he felt his stomach clench painfully. Max! Max was patrolling the Cardassian border on that derelict ship of his, the _Corvus_, the likes of which Starfleet had taken out of the mothballs in a spectacular display of utter despair. What chance did ships like the _Corvus _have against Cardassian battle cruisers?

Listening with one ear to his childhood friend going on about his daughter Rebecca being in love with a Starfleet officer, Rudy Ransom came to a decision. No matter what thy might or might _not_ have promised to each other. It was time to send Max a message.

He knew it would have to be a recorded one. The exact location of the _Corvus_ was confidential, for the safety of her crew, but from time to time, Starfleet _did_ deliver personal messages to and from the people serving on her. Max had already sent a short one to Rudy; it was time to return the courtesy.

~TBC~


End file.
